


Within

by lurkdusoleil



Category: Glee
Genre: (Not Kurt or Blaine), Alternate Universe - Beauty and the Beast, Character Death, M/M, Minor Character Death, Original Tale and Disney, fairytale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-13
Updated: 2012-06-13
Packaged: 2018-04-27 19:44:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 32
Words: 93,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5061595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lurkdusoleil/pseuds/lurkdusoleil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been seven years since Blaine became Prince, and in that time he's hidden away from the world. Only Kurt, the son of a merchant, can draw him out before it's too late. Klaine Beauty and the Beast AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I drew from a few sources for this story: the Disney movie, the original tale, and a few of my own imaginings. So if you see things that are familiar, that's why.
> 
> Note: there is previous character death (a minor character) and there will be one small character death at the end of the fic. If you can't guess and want to know, please feel free to contact me on my Tumblr.

The market taverns are always noisy. They are few and far between in a business that isn’t so portable—often, there is only one in the towns where the markets take place, and any other drink has to be had from questionable stalls with no place to sit and relax and repeat the day’s gossip with other workmen and merchants before returning to wives or half-covered carts.

Burt Hummel has always enjoyed the noise. His visits to the market have been less frequent as of late, the travels having become something of a burden with his age. In any event, it was time to start training one of his sons—Finn, perhaps, being the more readily available with his big, open, honest face and easy company. People didn’t buy goods from merchants they didn’t like.

His thoughts swirled uncertainly as he sat at the bar with his ale, his brow wrinkled in a way that was etching permanently.

“—and gods blast the Beast Prince for not caring a whit about his attendants.”

Burt perked up slightly at the oath, muttered from only two seats away.

“I say gods bless!” another piped in from further down the counter. “Over Carmel way, my Lord James hasn’t collected nearly as much as he used to—suppose he’s content with what he gets when he doesn’t have to pay it up to anyone else and gets to act the boss.”

“Yeah, well ours has gotten greedy, then,” the first grumbled. “We pay our taxes and tithes double over from last year’s, and I’m certain he’ll be demanding more come next.”  
There were sympathetic groans, and someone called out, “Who’s your liege, then?”

“Lord Smythe, I imagine,” Burt cut in, spinning in his seat and facing the man two seats over. “I’m guessing you’re from Lima way as well.”

“That’s right,” the man said. “Not a day’s travel from Dalton castle and none have seen that bastard prince in nearly seven years. The older Smythe was bad enough, but now that Sebastian’s been made knight-commander of the regiment as well, it’s only a matter of time before he takes over completely.”

“What you mean?”

The man turned to face the rest of the tavern completely, which had become rather invested in the conversation at the bar.

“What I mean,” the man said carefully, bold from ale and ire. “What I mean is that Lord Smythe is cousin to the Prince, and if the Prince continues whatever madness is going on at that castle, Smythe’ll have legitimate claim. He can raise the regiment and storm the castle and become Prince himself, and then we’ll all be for shit.”

Mutters broke out, scandalous glares and whispers of portent.

“—wouldn’t stick around if it were so—“

“—and where he might be, nobody’s seen—“

“—heard he’s cursed—“

“That’s what I heard as well,” someone in the back cried. “Back on that hunting trip everyone talked about. Prince Cooper was killed by the wolves, and they injured his brother, might’ve been bit—“

“So what, you think he’s half-beast? Like in the stories?”

“Why else wouldn’t he show his face?”

“Maybe the little Prince just killed his own brother off and couldn’t get away with it,” another voice snapped. “Got no truck with these fairy tales—“

“Well, I don’t know about any of that,” Burt finally said, raising his voice over the din. Everyone in the tavern instantly turned to him, for while not a particularly large man, Burt’s voice carried and he had an imposing physical presence much large than his actual body. It was in the eyes. “But I’ve a friend who attends at the castle, and while he doesn’t speak of the Prince, he’s certainly loyal to him. I’m guessing a man who murders his own brother or turns into a wolf by the moon wouldn’t command much respect.”

“Yeah, and how’d you know that?” the man in the back called. “Have you seen the Prince yourself? Maybe they’re all just afraid.”

“Maybe,” Burt said with obvious disbelief, “but maybe there’s another reason. Damn me if I know it, but all I know is that our friend here is right.” He slapped the man next to him on the shoulder, downing the rest of his ale and slapping the tankard down onto the bar. “He’s a damn sight better than what Smythe would be, and I’ll hold out hope that he’ll step up before his twenty-first birthday and the Lord of Lima can lay an actual claim.”

Without another word, Burt turned and left the tavern.


	2. Chapter 1

Kurt liked to wait at the door on days his father would be returning from his trips to the market. Burt’s age was advancing more rapidly as of late, and Kurt worried about possible infirmity, especially on long trips. This time, it had been a full three days’ ride to a town on the outskirts of Carmel, and who knew where Burt would decide to head next.

The house smelled of bread and spices from Carole’s baking. The house was warm, all wood and stone and memories. The sun shone in through thick glass windows, lighting up a dizzying cloud of dust floating incessantly through the air. Kurt wished he could dance like that dust—swirling, shining, free.

It wasn’t that Kurt had a bad life. His father’s wares kept them in general comfort, and with Carole selling her salves and potions to the locals for their ails, they hardly ever wanted for anything. Kurt had never had to work; he had never picked up shifts at the tavern, or been apprenticed out to a blacksmith or tailor. Not that he would’ve minded the tailor very much—in fact, if his father decided, as he surely would, that Finn was the better choice to train as a merchant, Kurt hoped that he could find a tailor to take him on. Sewing clothing was a far cry from unpleasant, and Kurt was skilled with a needle in any case.

The problem lay in finding someone to take him on. Kurt was well-known in their little town. He was not well-liked. He was too unusual, with his high voice and pale skin and delicate, elfin features. As soon as people saw him, they assumed he thought himself too good, which wasn’t entirely untrue. He spent his time reading and singing, completely disregarding the lack of accompanying instrument, or sewing new, pretty clothes with bolts of cloth bought with his father’s money. He had a strange aversion to ale and roughhousing with the other young men his age. He didn’t like to get his hands dirty. He was, in the whispers of rumor and gossip, too delicate.

Sometimes, in his deepest dreams, Kurt imagined himself playing his music for the noble lords of some far-away kingdom. In court he could be as delicate and pale as he liked—it was often a desired trait among courtiers. But he had never even been beyond the borders of his town, and the Prince hadn’t held court since his brother died. He’d have to go to another kingdom, or he’d have to try to make nice with lesser lords like Lord Smythe, who was rumored to be cruel to performers, to the amusement of his regiment.

No, the best he could hope for was for his father to find some tailor willing to take him on from somewhere far enough away to have never heard of him.

It was one of the reasons Kurt waited with such apprehension on days his father returned. He’d be readily available to help his father into the house, unload the cart if needed, tend to the horse, and he’d be there to hear any news. That was the part he wanted the most—word of a world outside of a place where he was hated.

When he saw his father’s familiar dun mare leading the cart, Kurt jumped up and called out a warning to Carole before opening the door and bounding away.

“Dad!” Kurt cried, waving and stopping by their ramshackle two-stall stables.

“Hey, kiddo,” Burt said, jumping down heavily from his perch. He moved forward to guide the horse by her harness, but Kurt beat him to it, leading her to the larger of the stables and unhitching the cart in front of it. “Finn around?”

“Not that I am aware of,” Kurt smirked. “Last I knew he was visiting Miss Berry over at the tavern.”

“Is she that loud little barmaid that likes to sing to the patrons?”

Kurt scowled bitterly. “The very same.”

“Now, Kurt,” Burt laughed, clapping his son firmly on the shoulder as he quickly brushed down the horse, “I know you want to do the whole…music thing, but—”

“Well, I’m sorry if I envy her the freedom to perform should she wish,” Kurt snapped. “I’m the most talented singer in the village but no one will listen because they’re so afraid of something different that they might as well be up in arms against it.”

Burt crossed his arms and faced his son with a frank look.

“I don’t think you understand how life works here. Most places can’t afford to have someone who sticks out too much. The workmen, they have to work together to keep themselves alive while they pay most of their work away to their Lords. They can’t have someone messing around, creating chaos, because if there are disagreements or the work can’t get done quickly enough, that’s that much less that goes to feeding their families.

“Now,” he continued, “I can afford to allow you to be yourself because I’m not a workman, am I? We make do pretty well here—we always have more than enough. So if you want to perform and be different, if you want to sew your clothes and read your books and keep your head up in the clouds, that’s okay by me. But you can’t expect everyone else to be as welcoming when they’ve been taught all their lives that people like you are a danger to their livelihood.”

Kurt bit his lip.

“I suppose that makes sense,” he admitted, turning his nose up slightly.

“And that doesn’t help either,” Burt said, guiding the horse to her stall and pointing at Kurt’s haughty expression. “Even farmers and blacksmiths have their pride. When you look down your nose at them, treat them like you’re above them, they’re going to resent it.”

Burt locked up the stable and turned back to Kurt. He put both his thick, warm hands on his son’s shoulders, noting how wide they’d gotten. Not a year prior Kurt had been a slip of a thing, but he was truly growing into a man despite the fact that his voice never deepened and his skin never tanned or thickened.

“Now don’t go changing who you are,” he said. “But just remember—not everyone is meant to be where they start out. You’re too big for this place, Kurt. And I’m going to be looking out for somewhere for you when I go to next market.”

“Where are you going next?” Kurt asked, turning with Burt and heading back to the house to greet Carole, who had been waiting on the steps while father and son spoke.

“I’m heading out tomorrow for Westerville,” Burt replied, smiling at his wife as they drew closer. “There’s a clothier out that way that might be looking for an apprentice if you’re interested. Or, if you’re really stubborn about it, I can try to speak to one of the bards about taking you on.”

Kurt stopped dead.

“A bard?” he asked, shocked. “You’d really allow me the life of a bard?”

Burt paused and turned back.

“Kurt, if that’s what you want, then that’s that. You let me know tonight or before I leave tomorrow what you want me to do and we’ll figure it out.”

Burt smiled and finally moved to embrace his wife. Kurt turned and started to head away, aiming to give his parents their privacy, but Carole’s voice stopped him.

“Kurt, wait a minute,” she said. “Would you mind heading down to the tavern? Finn has more important things to attend to than eyeing that Berry girl all night.”

“And take this,” Burt said, untying a pouch from his belt and tossing it to Kurt. He caught it with a quick hand, noting the clink of coins within. “Get some of that wine you like so much, Kurt.”

“The elderberry wine from York?” Kurt asked excitedly. “Really?”

“Sure thing,” Burt nodded. “We’ve much to discuss tonight, we might as well enjoy it.”

“Thanks, dad!” Kurt smiled, turning and skipping a little on his way out.


	3. Chapter 2

Lima’s tavern was full to bursting, and it looked like it had been divided down the middle. On the right side, all the familiar men of the town sat at the tables or the bar. Kurt picked out several of his tormentors, the worst of which were straight ahead at the bar—Azimio, the dark boy who’d come back with the baker from his travels in the south, and David Karofsky, the blacksmith’s apprentice. And, unfortunately for Kurt, sitting beside them and craning his neck to look behind the counter, was Finn.

He took a deep breath to steel himself and started towards the bar, noting that the left side of the room was filled with men in tabards bearing the crest of Lima. Some of the local regiment was in town instead of at the barracks a few miles away. Kurt wondered why, but he wasn't going to be asking anyone.

“Finn,” he called over the rumble of voices, shifting from foot to foot uncomfortably behind Finn. “Finn!”

Finn wasn’t paying attention, his eyes focused entirely on Rachel, who was filling mugs of ale from a cask and fluttering her eyelashes back at him in what she probably thought was a coy manner. However, his shouting had brought Kurt to attention with others, and as Azimio and Karofsky turned, Kurt lunged forward desperately to tap Finn on the shoulder.

“Huh?”

Finn turned just as Karofsky and Azimio stood. Kurt stepped back as they crowded him.

“Well, well,” Karofsky spat, “if it isn’t Lady Hummel. What brings you to a man’s bar, fancy?”

“I bet he’s husband hunting,” Azimio added. “He probably heard the regiment was in town and we all know what they do up in those barracks together.”

“Watch your mouth!” someone called from behind Kurt, and he flinched, stopping in the middle of the room, the soldiers on his back and Karofsky and Azimio hulking over him in front.

“I’d take your own advice, friend,” Karofsky sneered, “or I’d remove myself before I got hurt.”

“You will get hurt if you keep talking,” said another soldier, standing from his table and advancing.

“Enough.”

Kurt turned to see a tall, slender man in expensive armor and a gold-threaded cape moving toward them. He wore a smirk like it was his natural state, his eyes roaming over Kurt with marked interest. His shoulders were back, his spine straight, and he sauntered forward like he owned the place.

He might as well have. Kurt noticed that his tabard bore the personal crest of the House of Smythe. He recognized the man as Sebastian, Lord of Lima and knight-commander of the regiment.

“Is there a problem here, gentlemen?” he asked, a casual hand resting on the handle of the broadsword at his hip.

“No problem, milord,” Karofsky said, stepping back. “Just talking to our friend here.”

“Of course you were,” Sebastian replied, his smirk growing wider. “Why don’t you go back to drowning your pathetic sorrows in your drinks, boys.”

The command in his voice was implicit, and though Kurt often doubted the intelligence of those two dolts, they were obviously smart enough to know when they were defeated. With final glares at Kurt, they returned to the bar where Finn was sitting silently, staring openly at the scene.

“Do you always associate with such maggots?” Sebastian asked, stepping a little too close to Kurt. “You don’t seem like the type.”

“No, milord,” Kurt said, bowing slightly. “My thanks for…removing them.”

“Anytime,” Sebastian said. “And what’s your name?”

“Kurt Hummel.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Kurt Hummel.” Sebastian smiled. Kurt had to admit that he was as handsome as he had always been rumored to be--but then, hawks were handsome as well, and just as prone to drag their prey to dizzying heights before dropping them to their death.

And then Sebastian took his hand and bowed to kiss it, his smile turning predatory. Kurt pulled his hand back sharply, eyeing Sebastian suspiciously.

“Yes, a pleasure,” Kurt replied shortly, but ever polite. “Now if you’ll excuse me, my lord, I am here on an errand and running late.”

“You seem educated,” Sebastian said, following Kurt as he turned and approached the bar, waving his hand at Rachel to get her attention. “What is it you do?”

“I’m the merchant’s son, my lord,” Kurt sighed, growing anxious as Sebastian leaned next to him. He beckoned to Rachel again. “He’s a learned man.”

Rachel came up to him and smiled widely.

“Hello, Kurt. I see you’ve met Lord Smythe. Isn’t it lovely that he’s graced our humble tavern with his presence?“ She turned to Sebastian. “We are so honored, milord, and we’d be happy to provide some entertainment for you and your noble troops in just a few minutes. I’m a performer, you see, and—“

“Rachel,” Kurt interrupted, dropping some coins on the bar. “I need a few skins of the elderberry wine, please.”

Rachel faltered and gathered up the coins, nodding and grinning manically as she did her best to glide away while still staring in their direction.

“A merchant’s son, eh?” Sebastian asked, running a finger along Kurt’s arm. Kurt tensed. “Those are fine-quality clothes for a merchant’s son. How did you ever afford them? A gift from an admirer, perhaps?”

“I sewed them myself, my lord,” Kurt said, drawing his arm back.

“Did you?” Sebastian seemed surprised. “Are you apprenticed to the tailor?”

“No, my lord,” Kurt replied. Sebastian’s proximity was making him uncomfortable, no matter how handsome he was.

“Well, if you’re this good before an apprenticeship, I can’t imagine how talented you must be. Perhaps I should recommend you to my clothier.”

That gave Kurt pause. On the one hand, it was a respected position, and to have the opportunity to apprentice under a Lord’s personal clothier was one that Kurt wasn’t sure he could pass up. However, he knew the look Sebastian was giving him, and he wasn’t entirely sure he was earning the chance based on his skill alone.

“My thanks, my lord,” Kurt replied, unable to be rude and decline outright, but not entirely willing to go along with the idea either.

“Where might I find you, then?”

Kurt did not want to answer that, but was spared by the reappearance of Rachel, who was carrying a lacing of wineskins that bulged with the expensive wine.

“Here you are, Kurt. Now, don’t monopolize our Lord Smythe all night, I’m sure he’d be glad to hear—“

“Yes, thank you Rachel,” Kurt cut in, well-practiced in the art of stopping a Rachel Berry rant in its tracks. “I have to steal Finn away from you, I’m afraid. He’s needed back at home. But I’m sure Lord Smythe would love to hear you sing.”

“That’s fine, Kurt,” she said, turning immediately to Sebastian. Kurt quickly stepped away and grabbed Finn by the shoulder.

“Thanks for nothing, Finn,” Kurt hissed, guiding Finn out as quickly as he could to prevent Sebastian from pursuing him. “You just left me there to deal with Karofsky and Azimio, and then you leave me alone to handle Lord Smythe as well? What is wrong with you?”

“Whoa, hold on,” Finn said, holding his hands up and hurrying beside Kurt, happy of his longer stride to keep up with him. “I know I should’ve said something to Karofsky and Azimio, but I didn’t realize a Lord complimenting you and offering you a job was something you needed to be protected from.”

“Did you not notice that Sebastian wasn’t exactly comporting himself in the most gentlemanly manner—“

“I saw him kiss your hand, though,” Finn said. “I thought you liked—that sort of thing.”

“Not from him.”

Finn looked confused.

“You don’t…like men anymore?”

“That’s not the point, Finn,” Kurt said, exasperated. “He was making me uncomfortable, and he wasn’t offering me a job because he thinks I’d be good at it. You’ve heard the rumors.”

"Meaning what?"

Kurt let out a noise of disgust, his lips drawing thin. "Meaning my sewing needle isn't the one he's interested in."

"But you don't have any other--"

A look of dawning comprehension slipped over Finn’s face, followed by horror.

“Oh.”

“Look, let’s just get home,” Kurt said. “We can forget tonight ever happened, and hopefully Lord Smythe will, too.”

He hurried along, unable to shake the feeling that he was being pursued.


	4. Chapter 3

“Sit down, boys.”

As soon as the front door shut, Burt was waving the boys to the supper table, which had four cups already laid out. Kurt laid the skins on the table and handed his father the pouch of coins, still mostly full.

“Good, good,” Burt said, tying the pouch to his belt again. “Have a seat. We’ve all got a lot to discuss, as a family. Kurt, go ahead and pour the wine.”

Kurt untied one of the skins and poured a generous amount into the cups. When he’d tied off the skin again, he sat and took a deep draught of the sweet wine.

“Now,” Burt began, holding his cup between his wide hands, “we’ve always been a comfortable family. We’ve been lucky—people are buying what I sell, and Carole’s not doing so bad with her herbs and potions and whatnot. But it’s high time we thought about what you boys want for the future.”

He turned to Finn first.

“What I want to know from you is if you want to apprentice with me and take over when I…can’t anymore.”

Finn’s eyes widened.

“You mean…become a merchant?”

“That’s right,” Burt smiled, leaning back and nodding. “You’ll need some training, but I think you got it in you.”

“Thanks, Burt,” Finn answered, grinning. “When can I start?”

“When I get back from Westerville later this week,” Burt replied. “I’m leaving tomorrow morning, I should be back the third day after that. I can start going over the basics with you then, and the next market I go to I’ll bring you along so you can see how it goes.”

Burt turned to Kurt, who had been silently sipping at his wine.

“Now,” Burt said. “Have you thought about what we talked about earlier?”

Kurt’s mouth drew into a thin line as he debated telling his father about Sebastian’s offer. He sighed, reluctant, even afraid, to speak of it. His father knew about Sebastian’s proclivities, as well. Everyone did. And Kurt wasn’t sure he wanted Burt worrying about it—which he would, if Kurt decided to divulge anything.

“Could you two leave us alone for a bit?” Burt said, turning to Carole when Kurt didn’t answer for several long moments. “I need to speak to my son in private.”

As the two left, Burt refilled Kurt’s cup, filling it to the brim, and then doing the same with his own.

“I have a feeling we’re going to need these,” Burt sighed. “So what’s got you spooked? What aren’t you telling me?”

Kurt smiled wryly. His father knew him too well.

“Some of the men from the regiment were at the tavern tonight,” he said quietly, toying with his cup. “Including Lord Smythe.”

“And what did he do?” Burt prompted as Kurt paused, finding his words.

“Well, first, he got Karofsky and Azimio to back off when they started in on me,” Kurt admitted. “But then he…spoke to me.”

Burt’s eyebrows rose. “And what does that mean?”

“He seemed…interested in me,” Kurt continued haltingly, choosing his words deliberately. “He kissed my hand. Then he followed me to the bar while I bought the wine, and…paid me compliments. He said I seemed educated, and admired my clothing.”

“And it’s got you worried?” Burt asked. He was smirking in a knowing fashion. “Nothing wrong with someone admiring you a little.”

“Dad, you know the rumors,” Kurt reprimanded. “Sebastian Smythe seduces any innocent he can get his hands on and then…discards them like trash.”

“And you think he’d like to do this with you?”

“He offered to have me apprentice to his clothier,” Kurt finally said. “It’s an amazing opportunity. And I don’t think I’ll have another one quite as good. I’m just afraid that it will come at a price, Dad. Or that he doesn’t want me for that at all and he’s just looking for an excuse.”

Burt didn’t reply. He simply looked at Kurt and waited for him to get to the point.

“I don’t want to be Lord Smythe’s whore,” he continued. “But I don’t see what else I can do. What other prospects do I have? No one will take me on around here, and you can’t expect me to believe that people will think any differently of me in another village. It’ll be the same—I’m too…too different.”

“Kurt, if you don’t want anything to do with Lord Smythe, then you don’t have to do a damn thing,” Burt said firmly. “This might look like a golden opportunity, but it’s not the only one that’s going to come our way. Sebastian Smythe may be a lord, but he can’t force you to do anything you don’t want to do. I don’t think you want to trade your integrity for that kind of life, no matter how comfortable a life it might be. And you shouldn’t throw yourself around like you don’t matter. Because you matter, Kurt.”

Kurt smiled at his father as he spoke again.

“So. When I go to Westerville tomorrow, who should I look for? A bard or a tailor? Because I know you want to sing and tell your stories, but bards live a tough life and you might be more comfortable staying in one place and sewing your clothes. Up to you.”

Kurt pondered for a moment, swirling the remainder of his wine in his cup before drinking it.

“A bard,” Kurt replied, smiling assuredly. “If you can find a respectable one who’s willing to take me on. I never thought I’d say this, but maybe roughing it on the road will do me some good. I have always wanted to see the world. But if there are none looking for a student, I would be willing to apprentice under a tailor.”

“Don’t take the bard because you want to change yourself, Kurt. You’re just fine the way you are, you don’t need to toughen up, or—”

“I’m sure, Dad,” Kurt assured. “I’m not changing who I am. I’m taking the only route available to me in being myself. If that requires certain…sacrifices, so be it.”

“All right then. Very good,” Burt said. “So tomorrow I’ll leave, and while I’m in Westerville I’ll see what I can do before I come home on the third day.”

“Promise me you won’t make that trip in one day again, Dad,” Kurt interrupted. “It’s too much.”

“It’s not that bad, Kurt.”

“Dad, please. I don’t want you to get sick or hurt or—“

“Fine,” Burt agreed, raising his hands in defeat. “I’ll stop at Castle Dalton and stay with Michael in the servants’ quarters, all right? Thank the gods the Prince doesn’t pay attention to anyone who imposes on his servants’ hospitalities. Will that suffice?” he added dryly. 

Kurt didn’t rise to the bait. “It will indeed.”

 

\--

 

The next morning found Finn hitching the cart to the horse and securing the goods in the back. Burt had a fresh pack with some food and coin and his personal effects. Carole was straightening his tunic and fussing with his cloak while Kurt hovered nearby.

“Any requests while I’m out?” Burt asked, smiling around at his family. “Nothing too expensive, mind,” he added, eyeing Kurt. Kurt tried his best to look guilty, but he wasn’t.

“Do you think there’d be a poet willing to sell one of his poems?” Finn asked absently. “Rachel’s been hinting at me to write her one, but writing a poem is really confusing and I don’t want to make her mad.”

“I can check,” Burt laughed. “Carole?”

“See if that damn travelling herbalist can spare any plantain for a decent price,” she replied. “My supply’s clean out and the fisherman’s wife has been complaining.”

“Can do. Kurt?”

Kurt thought for a moment. He wasn’t in particular need of anything, after the past few market trips. But he’d had a thought recently and decided to act on it.

“Bring me back a rose,” he said, smiling. “I have an urge to cultivate a bush for our gate. It will give us a more…distinguished appearance.”

Burt laughed outright.

“A rose bush, Kurt?” Burt asked. “And what happens if I find someone for you to apprentice with, hm?”

“Carole can take care of a rose bush, can’t you Carole?” Kurt raised an eyebrow. “Besides, I’m sure the rose hips you can harvest will come in handy, won’t they?”

Carole laughed. “They couldn’t hurt anything.”

“Fine,” Burt conceded. “A poem, some plantain, and a rose. Gods help me if anyone should discover that list. I’ll be laughed out of the market.”

He kissed his wife goodbye and climbed up to the perch on the front of the cart. Kurt handed him the reins.

“Remember,” he said, “you promised to stop at Dalton on the way. I’ll be asking Mike if you did the next time he visits town.”

Burt grumbled. “Fine. I’ll give him your best, shall I?”

“I would appreciate it,” Kurt smirked, triumphant. “Come home safe, Dad.”

“I always do,” Burt replied, waving to his family and riding out the gate.


	5. Chapter 4

“I would appreciate it if you’d leave out the fact that I didn’t stop on the way there,” Burt was saying. He was walking along the path on the eastern side of the castle with Mike. 

Mike had grown up with Kurt and Finn, one of the few who had been friendly to young Kurt. He had been sent to work as a servant in Castle Dalton at the age of twelve, and in two years had become personal manservant to the younger prince. When Prince Cooper had died, he had stuck around despite the complete breakdown of the court and the ensuing destitution of the castle. He was unfailingly loyal to his Prince, and wouldn’t speak of anything related to him. However, he kept in touch with the Hummel family and visited the town often.

“You know he only worries about you,” Mike replied. “If you promise to keep your promises to him next time, I’ll let this one slide. Okay?”

“That’s an awful lot of promises, but I’ll do it.” Burt smiled and clapped Mike on the shoulder. “You’re a good kid. How’s your parents doing?”

Mike’s parents had moved far to the south after an infirmity made the cold weather hard for Mike’s father to handle. “They’re well. I received a letter from them last week.”

“Give them my regards in your return,” Burt said. “And your young lady?”

Mike smiled.

“Tina is also well,” he said. “She’s a maid here at the castle now, you know.”

“Really?” Burt was shocked. “The Prince takes on new servants? After all this time? How can he afford it?”

Mike paused, obviously uncomfortable. And then, for the first time in Burt’s hearing, he spoke of his Prince.

“The Prince is still a good man, and didn’t wish me to be apart from Tina, though I suspect it was more to keep me here,” Mike replied slowly. “And while he hasn’t collected his dues for seven years, we aren’t entirely impoverished.” He continued walking, heading towards the servants’ entrance. “We’re self-sufficient. We have beasts that we tend, and crops. We aren’t wealthy, but we manage. Just not in the luxury that we could should the Prince ever decide to resume his duties.”

“You know he can’t get away with this forever,” Burt cut in. “I was out towards Carmel the other day, and there were rumors. Smythe’s been getting greedier, and the worry is that he’ll try to make a claim if the Prince doesn’t resume his duties. People are getting tired—I don’t know what happened, and I don’t need to know, but it’s been seven years. We all expected the Prince to take back up by his eighteenth birthday, when he reached majority and gotten done with his schooling and recovery, but it’s almost three years beyond that now. The people have been patient, because Cooper was always so well-loved and they were willing to do the family the favor of waiting, but it’s running out. None of us want Sebastian on the throne, but we need somebody.”

Mike sighed deeply.

“Thank you for telling me this, Burt,” he said finally, leading Burt into the servants’ wing and showing him to his room. “I can’t promise anything will change, but I’ll be speaking to the Prince. Your concern is appreciated.”

They bade each other good night, but Mike didn’t return to his own chambers. He slipped out of the servant’s quarters, on the lower floor of the East wing, and through the main castle into the upper West wing. He knocked on the large wooden door at the end of the hall.

“Come in, Mike.”

Mike entered the old King’s office and shut the door behind him. The Prince was facing away from him, seated in a large chair by the window, staring out at the darkening fields, untended on this side of the castle. His ever-present hood was down, so Mike could see the wild, tangled black hair on the back of his head.

“What is it?”

“My lord, as I’m sure you know, Burt Hummel is visiting the castle and staying in the servants’ quarters.”

“This is the merchant from Lima you visit?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“And? He’s visited before. You’ve never felt the need to inform me.”

“My lord, Burt is an intelligent man,” Mike said carefully. “He knows how to distinguish between idle gossip and truth, and he’s…informed me that it’s possible that Sebastian might be planning to attempt a claim on the throne.”

The Prince’s curly head turned slightly, giving Mike a faint outline of a strong jaw hidden behind a wild growth of hair. Mike waited in silence for a response.

“Tell me more about Burt Hummel.”

Mike smiled faintly. When they were boys, the Prince had always been curious about the people Mike knew. He was sheltered, where Mike was not, and he wanted to know more about the outside world. In some ways, Mike supposed, this had never changed.

“An impressive man,” he said. “A good man. He’s honorable, and honest. Blunt, and wise. He was a good friend of my father’s. I grew up with his two sons in Lima. Only the younger is his son by blood, but he married Carole, the apothecary’s widow, after his first wife died of illness when the boy was small. He raised them both, and he raised them properly—both have become good men.”

“Tell me about them.”

Mike smiled wider at the Prince’s curiosity, which he hadn’t even attempted to hide. “Finn, the elder, is a simple man. Hard-working and friendly. He’s got a sweetheart working in the local tavern that keeps his hands full. They’re expected to marry once Burt trains him to take over his market stall. He’s well-liked.”

“And the younger? Why is he not taking over his father’s business, if he is blood?”

“Kurt,” Mike continued, his voice lowering sadly. “The townsfolk don’t like him much.”

“And yet you say he’s a good man.”

“He is,” Mike maintained, “but he’s different. His mother was a rare beauty—delicate, pale, and very smart. Too good for a small place like Lima—she was born for the court. Her father had plans to marry her off to a noble, I imagine, but she fell in love with Burt, and was a good and loyal wife until her death. Kurt takes after her, and the townsfolk resent him for it. He doesn’t fit in with the boys his age.”

“You mean he isn’t a stupid, bumbling boor.” Mike could tell the Prince was being sarcastic. He had no idea that he had hit the truth directly. Mike laughed bitterly.

“That is exactly what I mean. Kurt is…special. He is talented. He can sew well enough that he could be a clothier to a noble. He plays the lute. He is a particularly gifted singer. He wants to be a bard. ”

“Then why isn’t he a bard?”

“No one will take him to apprentice, my lord,” Mike explained. “People gossip about Kurt, and the gossip isn’t kind. I don’t think you understand just how badly he’s treated. He’s tormented by the other boys. He’s quick enough to defend himself, my lord, and he has a sharp tongue, but he’s not as…physical as they are. These are blacksmiths and farm workers and heavy laborers, and there have been many occasions when Kurt has had to hide bruises.”

The Prince was silent, but Mike, who knew him well, could see that he wanted to know more. It was in the way his head was tilted to the side and slightly up, as though if his ear was directly facing Mike more information could get in.

“My lord,” Mike said, hoping the talk had softened the Prince as well as intrigued him. Maybe if he was interested in some of his people, he’d take what Mike wanted to say to heart. “I am worried that Burt may be correct. You know how Sebastian is, and the past few years he’s been raising his taxes and keeping all the excess for himself. He’s knight-commander of a regiment, and he has the resources to come to Dalton and take over without a problem.”

“Perhaps that is what’s best for the kingdom,” the Prince sighed.

“No, my lord, it’s not,” Mike insisted. “He’s cruel and rapacious, and he’d abuse his people.”

“Is that really any worse than neglecting them?”

Mike paused, and then said quietly, “May I be blunt?”

The Prince’s cheek turned up in a humorless smile.

“By all means.”

“The people needn’t be neglected,” Mike said passionately. “They would follow in an instant if you decided to lead. Send out a message to the Lords. Collect your tithes, fix up the castle, and hold court again. There are enough of us to pull it off until things get settled and you can keep more servants. We are all loyal, and the Lords would follow.”

“I’m not so sure, Mike,” the Prince replied, his voice all but dead. “You know how superstitious the people are. Who would follow a man accursed?”

“They would follow you, my lord!” Mike cried. “They love you!”

“They loved my brother,” was the rejoinder, suddenly bitter and harsh. “They loved the handsome boy I was. If they saw me now, they would cower in fear or demand I be put down as the beast I am.”

Mike’s jaw tensed as he ground his teeth. He’d seen the Prince fall into this self-loathing before. There was no reasoning with the Prince when he became like this. His temper was lost, and only time would regain it.

“I’ll leave you,” Mike said quietly, backing toward the door and reaching behind him for the handle. “But we can’t ignore this forever. Sebastian will come by your twenty-first birthday. Less than two months away. And you can do something about it, but you choose not to.”

There was no response.

“I wish you could see what I see, Blaine,” he said, and turned to leave. 

The Prince remained silent.

 

\--

 

A little less than a day’s travel away, Kurt wandered in the back gate absently and sat down on the wooden bench beneath the lilac bush his mother had planted a year before her death. It was almost dark, the world colorless but just light enough to see. The sun had just disappeared behind the mountains in the west, the ones Kurt wondered if he’d have to cross should he ever wish to live the life he wanted. Would he ever get the chance to sink over the edge of the world, following the sun and the rivers and his own bittersweet dreams? His father had promised to look for an opportunity for him, but there was no guarantee. Why should anyone want him? Whoever his father could contact would be just like the townspeople that had shunned Kurt all his life. Why would he even hope for it to be different this time?

He’d spent the whole day thinking thus, melancholy and preoccupied. He’d left early that morning, drifting out to the wild fields on the outskirts of town. He remembered there had once been a farm somewhere out here, long before his birth, when his father was a child, but all that was left were some blackberry bushes and the ruins of the farmhouse. A fire had taken it, and since the Smythe family had taken charge of Lima three generations before, the village had become increasingly poor. Things hadn’t been too bad, however, until the latest Lord had taken his place.

Sebastian.

He’d come of age and taken over from his dying father about a year before Prince Cooper’s death. And while Cooper had never been a particularly attentive Prince, preferring to hold lavish court and deal with more interesting people than the peasants he ruled over, he had still done his duty and responded to the requests of the village councils and the Lords. He’d kept Sebastian in check, a fact that no one could have known until that next year, when Prince Blaine had taken over the throne and let it fall into disarray. Sebastian had seized his chances and grown increasingly bold over the years, demanding more and more tribute from the villages but only responding to the councils when he wasn’t off picking fights with other regiments or raiding free cities. The last year he’d doubled taxes and completely ignored his people. More and more places were ending up like the farmhouse—empty, dilapidated, cold.

Kurt sometimes felt that the people could be described the same way, but he wasn’t entirely sure that was Sebastian’s fault.

His thoughts kept circling back to Sebastian. After his encounter with the young Lord that night at the tavern, he hadn’t been able to shake a feeling of dread and anticipation. Sebastian had shown interest in him openly, and Kurt knew what happened to people he showed interest in. Girls, boys, it didn’t matter—Lord Smythe seduced them all, and when he was finished, they were left shamed and discarded if they didn’t meet their end in some unfortunate “accident.” Kurt recalled the chandler’s son, some three years prior, who had, upon his fifteenth birthday, been invited to sup with Lord Smythe.

He hadn’t come back. The excuse was that he’d drunk too much wine over the course of their weekend of celebration. Kurt suspected he hadn’t taken the bribe to keep his mouth shut.

And now Sebastian had seen Kurt and didn’t show any intentions of unseeing him. The night prior, Kurt had answered a knock on the door to find a grim soldier standing outside, bearing a letter addressed to him. It had borne Sebastian’s personal seal.

Kurt hadn’t had the courage to open it yet.

“Kurt?”

Kurt looked up quickly, having forgotten himself. It was overcast and now completely dark, and the light shining from within the cottage was the only source of light. He saw the outline of Carole at the back door, a lantern held in her hand.

“I’m here,” he said, lifting his hand. “Sorry, Carole.”

She moved closer, the lantern bobbing in her hand, a small smile on her kind face. Kurt made to stand, but she waved him off, hanging the lantern off the post next to the bench that had been placed there for that very purpose. She sat on the bench next to Kurt and looked back at the lilac bush.

“Should be blooming soon,” she said, reaching out a hand to brush against some of the overhanging branches. “It’s been getting warmer every day.”

“I’ll have to make a wreath to bring to her grave,” Kurt muttered. Carole nodded, not needing anymore explanation.

“You were gone a long time today, Kurt,” she said, apropos of nothing. Kurt turned to look at her and, when he could tell nothing from her face, he shrugged.

“I had a lot on my mind.”

Carole’s smile turned sad.

“I know.”

She reached into a pocket of her apron and pulled out Kurt’s letter.

“Where did you get that?” he asked, the color draining from his face.

“I think you need a better hiding spot than under your pillow, sweetheart,” she laughed. She held the piece of parchment out to him, and the wax seal gleamed in the lamplight.  
“How did you know to look for it?” He recoiled a bit, not making any attempt to take it from her.

“A soldier was at the door today,” she replied. “He demanded an answer, so it wasn’t terribly difficult to conclude that you’d been given a message of some sort. You needn’t worry, though,” she added, seeing how pale Kurt had gotten. “I told him you’d send your reply when you were good and ready.”

Kurt laughed incredulously. “You didn’t!”

“I did,” she chuckled. “You should’ve seen his face!”

“But Carole,” Kurt said, growing serious, “you shouldn’t have done that! He could’ve done anything!”

“Oh, horseshit,” she said wryly. Kurt held his hand up to his mouth to hold in his laugh. “He wouldn’t touch me, not if it would ruin his lord’s chances with you.”

Kurt became grave again. He took a shaky breath and looked down at his hands where they were clenched tightly in his lap.

“So you know everything.” His stepmother had always been a clever woman.

“Finn was there when Sebastian spoke to you,” she said. “He didn’t have any problems filling me in on why Lord Smythe might be leaving messages for you.” She held out the letter again, and this time Kurt took it. “I think you should read it.”

Kurt snapped the seal and unfolded the parchment. The sharp black letters looked like knife cuts on the pale, smooth paper, and as he read the message, they began to feel like they were cutting him as well.

“He requests my presence at my earliest convenience,” he said, staring down and trying to control his breathing. “He invites me to sup with him so that we can discuss my integration into his household. He doesn’t even make the pretense of having me apprentice to his clothier like he did in the tavern.”

Kurt crumpled the paper and tried to fight down the nausea that had threatened to overtake him since he’d opened the damn letter.

“I don’t know what to do, Carole,” he breathed, feeling his eyes start to prickle and wishing away the tears. “When he first spoke to me, I could brush it off as him just indulging a whim, but now that he’s actually taking steps to take me…I’m afraid to turn him down. But I can’t go up there.”

“There is another answer, you know,” she said. “Your father returns tomorrow. He could have word of another opportunity for you. If you’re already promised to apprentice elsewhere, he won’t be able to fault you for turning him down. You can’t go back on your word.”

“And if Dad didn’t find someone to take me?”

“I’m sure your father will have no trouble stretching the truth a bit,” she said mildly. “What Sebastian doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

Kurt smiled. “It might work. At least until Dad leaves for his next market and I don’t go with him.”

“We’ll figure out something to keep telling him. I don’t think anyone would go against your father. Not even the Lord of Lima.”

Kurt laughed at that. “He can be rather terrifying, can’t he?”

Carole laughed with him and grabbed one of his hands in her own. “He can. And he will, to protect his son.”

She stood, pulling Kurt up with her and embracing him.

“It will be okay, Kurt,” she said, and Kurt had never felt more grateful to have her. “We’ll make sure of it.”

With that, she turned, grabbed the lantern from the post, and led the way to the house. Kurt followed, feeling better than he had in days.


	6. Chapter 5

The next morning, Burt found his breath clouding in front of his face in the unseasonable chill. His pack was hitched to his back, his horse was hitched to the cart, and Mike was seeing him off.

“I hope you’re rested enough for your trip,” he was saying, petting the mare’s soft nose in farewell. “Do you have everything you need?”

“I’m fine,” Burt said, pausing to think. He felt he’d forgotten something, the nagging feeling of it itching at the back of his mind.

“Something wrong?” Mike asked.

“I got this feeling I’m missing something,” Burt said. Mike was guiding the horse by hand from the servant’s entrance in the back of the castle. Burt strolled beside him along the path, noting how overgrown the gardens had gotten, how high the ivy had grown on the walls of the castle. For someone who could remember visiting when the place had been tended and in its prime, it was a sad sight.

They’d reached the far back of the castle, the path they’d been on connecting with one leading around the castle, which they’d been heading for to take them to the gate, and one that ran from the rear entrance to the outer path that ran near the walls. Burt paused and stared down the latter, toward a large, lush rose bush with deep, dark red roses just starting to bloom in the early spring months.

“Damn, that’s it,” he cursed, smiling wryly at himself. Memory was becoming a funny thing lately.

“What is it?”

“Remember how I told you about that poem I bought for Finn?”

Mike laughed. “Yes. I wonder if Rachel will fall for it.”

“Probably. But Kurt asked for something too—a rose. And I forgot,” Burt said, staring at the shrub ahead. “He wants to plant one at our gate. Gods know why.”

He couldn’t look away from the dark flowers. They were still young, the buds not quite blooming yet, the leaves not grown to fullness. But it didn’t matter—they were stunning, the tight petals already velvet-smooth and seeming to suck in the early morning light. Even that couldn’t brighten their deep color. Burt was reminded forcefully of his first wife. Elizabeth had always blushed so deeply when Burt complimented her or flirted with her, especially when he first courted her. Her pale skin couldn’t hide it. He remembered one day when they had snuck away from her father’s to spend the day together. They had found a field with blackberries, and they had eaten them till they felt sick. The dark juice had stained her pretty pink lips the same red, and she’d blushed and blushed as Burt had kissed them clean. He loved Carole—of course he did—but Elizabeth had been his first love, his true love. And all the memories came back looking on those roses.

Kurt would appreciate them, both the flowers and the memories.

“We can see if there are any wild roses growing in the garden,” Mike offered from behind Burt. “I’m sure there are some on a vine near the front gate—“

“What about those?”

Burt was spurred into action by his bittersweet nostalgia. He strode forward, his eyes locked on one of the tender buds. He’d only need one—Kurt could grow a bush from one flower. He pulled his small knife from its sheath and reached out.

“Burt, no, not those!”

Mike was running up behind him, Burt could hear his steps, but he didn’t process his cries. With a quick slip of his knife, he’d cut through the stem of the rose, and held the small, delicate flower in his strong hand.

He replaced his knife in its sheath and turned, smiling down at the little rosebud. It was truly beautiful, its petals velvet smooth and even more richly colored up close. He was completely entranced by it.

Which is why he couldn’t see the dark form heading for him.

\--

Blaine had woken early that morning, earlier than usual. It was far colder than it should be, and when he rose from bed and made his way to the window, he saw that there had been a frost overnight.

Damnit.

The roses had just started blooming, and if the frost had settled, he could lose all of them. He’d have to go out and check them, and hopefully he wouldn’t have to prune off any of the buds. He’d gotten everything perfect when he had pruned last, and he certainly didn’t want to sacrifice any of the blooms to an unexpected chill.

He dressed quickly, not bothering to wake and summon Wes or David, his grooms. He was certain they wouldn’t mind much—while they had insisted they continue their duties to him, they also had work to do to keep themselves fed. He knew for a fact that Wes had taken it upon himself to cultivate the fields with corn and wheat.

Maybe he’d give them each an office before he was usurped. They deserved it. All of his servants did, for staying loyal to him all these years despite his refusal to take on his responsibilities.

He moved to the wall beside his bed and pressed it with a sure hand. A section swung away, a concealed door, and he walked through it into the dining hall. He kept his eyes averted from the long fireplace on the wall to his left. It didn’t matter that the painting above the mantle was covered with a sheet—he could feel the eyes boring into him from behind it, and he didn’t dare meet them, even through the layers of fabric.

He hadn’t been able to meet them in life, either.

He moved through the corridor behind the hall toward the back entrance of the castle. He strode to the large wooden door and pulled it open, shivering in the blast of cold air that hit him as he stepped out into the early morning and headed towards the gardens.

What he saw when he approached froze him, but it wasn’t more than a moment till his anger melted away his shock and propelled him forward.

Mike was calling out to someone, someone who was standing before his roses with knife in hand.

Blaine rushed forward, his head clouding with anger as he saw Mike’s merchant friend turning around, one of his roses clutched in his dirty paws.

“My Prince!” Mike called, trying to stop Blaine as he strode forward. Blaine brushed him aside and surged forward, grabbing the merchant’s wrist and twisting it, plucking the rose out of that treacherous hand as the man fell heavily to his knees in pain.

“You accept the hospitality of my servant, in my castle,” Blaine growled, glaring down and fighting the urge to kill the man right then, “and then you see fit to steal from me?”  
“Steal?” Burt blurted out, grimacing. His eyes were wide, stuck on what he could see of Blaine’s face where it was hidden in a deep hood—his mouth and chin, surrounded by a thick beard, patchy and cut through with scars. “What—I—“

“My lord,” Mike said, stepping forward and trying to step between Blaine and Burt. “If you’ll let me explain—“

“Explain?” Blaine scoffed. “Explain what? That he cut a rose from my garden without my permission?”

“He did not know they were your roses, my lord,” Mike replied quickly, holding up his hands, placating. “He spoke of his son requesting a rose, and I offered any wild roses we should come across. He wasn’t to know that these aren’t wild roses, my lord. It was my fault for not explaining in time.”

“He wasn’t to know that a tended, pruned rose bush isn’t wild?”

“I will take full responsibility, my lord.” Mike took a deep breath, and Blaine recognized that he was ready to take on whatever consequence his prince should order in his anger. “He is my guest, after all.”

Was this man really worth taking on what was sure to be a severe punishment?

Blaine dropped Burt’s wrist and drew himself up, his wrath more than compensating for his average height. He turned his head to Mike, and as his mouth opened to berate his servant, Burt spoke.

“No,” he said, and Blaine snapped his head around in disbelief. The merchant’s head lowered deferentially, but his eyes cast up, without fear. “It was my knife that cut the rose. Therefore, the fault lies with me. My deepest apologies, my lord. What can I do to right my mistake?”

Blaine toyed with the rose in his hand, twirling it between his fingers. He stared at Burt from within his hood, impressed at the man’s bravery in not only admitting his wrongs, but doing so while facing down his Prince, who was supposedly cursed into being a monster and whom he had just interrupted.

Mike must have been right about Burt Hummel—an impressive man indeed.

What could he do? Blaine’s anger was draining away as quickly as it had come. He couldn’t condemn this man. Not only did he command the loyalty of Mike, who was and had always been an excellent judge of character, but he was willing to take responsibility for his actions despite having been given a clear out. And Mike was right—he had no reason to know that those roses weren’t to be touched.

But he couldn’t let it go completely. Those were his roses.

The damage had been done, though. The rose was cut. He couldn’t demand Burt return the rose—what would he do with it? They meant too much to throw away.  
Mike had mentioned something about Burt taking the rose for his son. Kurt. He couldn’t deny that Mike’s description had interested him. Gods knew why the description of the merchant’s son in particular had drawn his attention. Mike described plenty of people he knew from outside Dalton. Why Kurt? Fellow-feeling, perhaps, for someone who struggled with his differences to the world around him?

He wasn’t quite ready to admit to the whole truth, even to himself. But he could act on it.

“I’m willing to allow you to compensate me for this rose,” Blaine said finally. “I’ll even allow you to take it with you. But I require payment.”

Burt’s shoulders sagged with obvious relief.

“What payment does my lord command?”

Blaine smiled.


	7. Chapter 6

Burt was due back later in the day, so Kurt was waiting by the door, as usual. He rested his forehead against the cool, thick glass of the window, his knees drawn up to his chest on the bench. It wasn’t terribly comfortable—it didn’t even have cushions—but Kurt was used to it. He’d been sitting on that same bench, waiting for his father, since he could remember. He wasn’t about to stop doing it now.

His thoughts drifted away from him in fanciful daydreams. He imagined himself having been born ten years earlier. He would’ve reached majority just as Prince Cooper took the throne twelve years prior, and he could’ve travelled to Castle Dalton and joined court as a minstrel. Cooper had loved music and plays and stories, and had entertained many bards in his court. Kurt could’ve just walked in and requested an audience, and he would’ve wowed the whole court with his unusual voice and striking presence. They would’ve cherished him for it, and found him fascinating rather than repulsive. He would’ve gotten a permanent place at court, and he could’ve met the most amazing, fascinating people, and he would’ve fallen in love with a handsome nobleman who would have delighted in showering him with gifts and affection and no one like Karofsky or Azimio or Rachel or Sebastian could ever touch him…

Out of the corner of his eye, Kurt saw a horse coming up the lane, pulling him out of his fantasies. He turned quickly, surprised—his father shouldn’t be home for at least another few hours, unless he pressed himself, and he’d promised he wouldn’t, and—

It wasn’t his father.

The horse was a sleek black beast; tall, its muscles rippling beneath the silky coat. Astride it was Lord Sebastian Smythe.

Kurt scrambled off the bench and ran into the hall, entirely unsure if he should wait for Sebastian to come to the door or go outside. Here he paused, fiddling with his hair and shifting nervously, hoping he didn’t look too flustered—he didn’t want to give Sebastian any advantage over him, and he was sure looking like a mess would count. His cheeks felt flushed and his clothes were a bit rumpled, but he didn’t have time to fix that now.

He hurried back to the window and looked out quickly. Sebastian had reached the stables and was lashing his horse’s reins to a post. Kurt still had time to head him off—he wouldn’t be letting Lord Smythe into his home, into where he was comfortable and vulnerable.

He opened the door and stepped out with as much confidence as he could muster. He stepped down and headed toward Sebastian, who turned and waited when he saw Kurt coming toward him.

“Kurt Hummel,” Sebastian said, facing Kurt and bowing cordially. “So you do still exist.”

“My lord,” Kurt said, returning the bow stiffly and choosing not to acknowledge Sebastian’s comment. “To what do I owe the honor of your visit?”

“I believe I sent you a message,” came the quick reply. “Did you not receive it?”

“I did, my lord.”

“And yet my soldier was turned away when he came for a response. Rather rudely, I’m told.”

“My apologies, my lord,” Kurt said, smiling coldly. “I was not aware my answer was required so urgently. Did the note not specify that I was to reply at my earliest convenience?”

Sebastian’s smirk hardened, and he looked over Kurt again, as though seeing him in a different light. After he’d swept over Kurt’s body, he huffed out a laugh, suddenly grinning.

“I see you are not lacking spirit,” Sebastian said, leering. “Good. I would be disappointed were you as meek as you seemed the other night.”

“I’m sorry, my lord,” Kurt said innocently. If Sebastian wanted to play games, Kurt was going to set the rules. “I wasn’t aware that clothiers needed any particular attitude to perform satisfactory service.”

Sebastian eyed Kurt again. He looked surprised, but not displeased.

“No, I’m sure your…services are quite satisfactory regardless,” he said. “And I notice you’ve still not given me an answer.”

“Is it common practice for a Lord to sup with a prospective employee?” Kurt asked. He knew he was pushing it, but he’d gotten away with it so far and Sebastian’s constant staring was grating on his nerves. “I thought such things below a nobleman. I expected a letter directly from your clothier, or from your chamberlain.”

Sebastian’s answer was a raised eyebrow. Kurt pressed on.

“I am terribly sorry if my etiquette is lacking, my lord, I am but a peasant. But is it truly necessary for you to come for an answer in person, and after such a short time? Your clothier must be in dire need of an apprentice, if you are so eager to fill the position.”

“I think we both know that I’m only interested in having you in one position,” Sebastian shot back, his eyes narrowing as he crossed his arms. He smirked again, adding, “At least at first.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean, my—“

“You know exactly what I mean,” Sebastian snapped, suddenly stepping into Kurt’s personal space. “I didn’t ask you to my manor so you could sew me clothes. I don’t need a damn apprentice clothier, nor do I want one. I only want one thing.”

Kurt inhaled sharply, stepping back. Sebastian followed him, crowding him. He grasped Kurt by the waist, his gloved hands stroking Kurt over his clothing.

“The moment I saw you enter that tavern, I knew you’d be exquisite,” Sebastian gasped, tilting his head down and brushing his nose along Kurt’s cheekbone. Kurt froze. “So pretty. So delicate. I saw you blush the first time and all I could think of was how far down the blush went. I’ve never wanted to see anything so badly.”

Kurt tried to pull back, pushing his hands against Sebastian’s chest, but Sebastian was strong and had him in a firm grip.

“But then you surprised me,” he continued. “I send you my message, and you refuse to answer. My soldier is rebuffed, and when I come here myself, I am met with resistance. And you talk back to me! What kind of wild animal would you be when properly unleashed? I am certainly impatient to find out. Gods know I love a challenge, but there’s no need to continue fighting.”

Sebastian’s hands reached around and caressed Kurt’s bottom, stroking the firm muscle in circles. Kurt pushed against him again, trying to back out of his grip, but he only succeeded in backing further into the hands grasping at his backside. Sebastian groaned.

“You know why I asked you to sup with me,” the lord whispered, his voice silky, looking directly into Kurt’s eyes. “And I know that you know. You’ve known all along. And you’ve done your best to deny me, but I’m done playing with you.”

Sebastian pressed himself right against Kurt, and he was horrified to feel Sebastian’s arousal pressing into his abdomen.

“You will come to supper with me tomorrow night,” he said, squeezing Kurt sharply. “We will eat a fabulous meal, and then I will fuck you over the dinner table until you scream for more. And when we’re finished, I will take you to my chambers and fuck you again. And in the morning, we’ll continue, and again, and again.”

“No—“

“You will be given chambers, though I’m not sure you’ll see much of them, at least at first. And you will continue to allow me to do with you what I like for as long as I wish it. I promise you that you will not be dissatisfied yourself. You will live in the greatest luxury, and be showered with gifts and favors. And I am told that I am a most skillful lover, so you will sleep well at night after I tire you out.”

“And how long until you throw me back out onto the street?” Kurt demanded, finally breaking free of Sebastian’s embrace. He backed up hurriedly, putting at least three paces between himself and Lord Smythe. “How long until I am discarded, or worse, killed?”

“What makes you think I’ll be doing that?” Sebastian asked.

“And why wouldn’t you?” Kurt spat. “It’s no secret that that is the fate of all your lovers.”

Sebastian laughed delightedly.

“Oh, no,” he said. “You misunderstand me. If I were looking for a quick fuck, I wouldn’t bother pursuing you. I can get that anywhere.” He stepped closer to Kurt again, but Kurt quickly backed away, desperate to keep space between them. “I’m looking for a more…permanent arrangement.”

“You want a…a concubine?”

“If that’s what you want to call it, yes, though of course I still reserve the right to take other lovers on occasion.” Sebastian admitted. He didn’t seem troubled by the admission. “It’s a generous offer, Kurt. And it’s likely the best prospect you’ll ever have. You should be honored. I’ve never offered to take someone on permanently. That makes you quite special.”

That was all Kurt had ever wanted: to be special. He’d been different long enough, the object of scorn and derision. He wanted to be cherished, envied. He’d have privilege, and possibly even some sway with a Lord. And the way the people had been talking, Sebastian wanted to make a claim for the throne—he could end up companion to the King. He had the chance before him to be truly special, because as Sebastian’s… companion, he would be just that.

“I’ll even give you a public face if you want,” Sebastian said. “Court minstrel, perhaps? Everything else need only be between us.”

Sebastian knew. He knew everything; he knew just what Kurt wanted. He had all the power at his disposal, and Kurt would be a fool to turn down everything he’d ever wanted. All he had to do in exchange was allow this handsome, strong man to use his body for pleasure, and he’d already promised Kurt would be pleased in return. It wasn’t a bad deal. There was always the risk that Sebastian would tire of him, but Kurt was a determined person—if he could learn to keep Sebastian satisfied, he’d be set for life.

But could he do it? Could he allow himself to be used, like an object? He wouldn’t be special or important then. He’d give up being his own person. And all the romance he’d ever dreamed of, the stories of true love he had always believed in…he’d have abandoned it all.

_Don’t throw yourself around like you don’t matter. Because you matter, Kurt._

He couldn’t do it.

“My answer, my lord,” Kurt said, smiling sweetly, “is no.”

Sebastian’s seductive smirk fell into a grimace and his eyes narrowed angrily. Kurt couldn’t help but feel that he no longer looked very handsome.

“You are making a—“

“Good afternoon, Lord Smythe. Can I help you?”

Kurt could have cried with relief.

“Dad!”

He rushed forward to see his father off the cart. Burt handed him the reins and turned to Sebastian as Kurt led the mare to her stall and began his usual chore of unhitching the cart and rubbing down the horse. His father had taken over now.

“What can a lowly merchant do for the Lord of Lima today?” Burt asked. Kurt listened intently.

“I have come to offer your son a very important position in my court. However, he’s just turned me down.”

“Well, that’s that, then,” Burt said. “Though I wasn’t aware you had a court, Lord Smythe.”

Sebastian sneered.

“I will soon,” he warned. He turned to Kurt. “It would be best if you changed your mind, Kurt. Do so before the month is out and I’ll forgive your current lapse in judgment. After that, I can’t promise anything.”

Sebastian untied his black from the post and mounted easily before riding away.

“What in the hell was that, Kurt?”

Kurt shuddered.

“It’s not a problem, Dad,” he said. “Like he said, I turned him down. Though…I don’t know if he’ll be back to try to convince me otherwise.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem,” Burt said.

“What do you mean, shouldn’t be a problem?” Kurt asked. “I just basically insulted the most powerful man around—“

“No, I’m afraid I did that,” Burt replied. Kurt felt like he was missing something.

“I don’t know if what you said could be considered an insult, exactly—“

“I’m not talking about Lord Smythe.”

Kurt stared.

Burt sighed. “I think we should go inside.”


	8. Chapter 7

Kurt had never been to Dalton castle before. He’d seen it in the distance, and heard of it from his father and Mike, but he’d never even gone down the half-mile long path that was the only way to reach Dalton through the woods.

He had to admit, even in its current state, Dalton was a beautiful place. The stone exterior was a light cream color, though a great deal of it was covered with trails of ivy, some vines still green but most of it brown and shriveled in death. The castle looked empty—it  _felt_ empty, like a great echoing cave that swallowed all light and sound. The gardens out front were overgrown and wild, chaotic, though colorful with spring blooms left to their own devices. The fields on the western side were full of grass that looked tall enough to brush his waist, though the eastern fields looked at least partially tended, the ground tilled over much of what Kurt could see. 

Kurt wished he could’ve seen it up close when it had been in its prime. Tales were still told of its grandeur. Now, it just looked sad. Maybe Kurt could compose a ballad about its fall into wretchedness…

“Here we are,” Mike said, rather unnecessarily, but Kurt didn’t blame him. The whole situation felt awkward, and had since his father had returned and explained it to him.

 

 

_“…so I asked what payment he wanted. And he asked for you.”_

_Kurt gaped._

_“What, just like that?”_

_“Well,” Burt said, hedging. “He demanded a payment of service. He said he required one of my sons to render services to the castle in whatever capacity they could. So I could’ve sent Finn up to do manual labor, because we both know he’s not much good for anything else just yet, or I could send you.”_

_“So…you picked me?” Kurt asked, near tears. “Why? What did I do—“_

_“No, Kurt,” Burt said, grabbing Kurt’s hand across the table. “You didn’t do anything wrong. But I gotta tell ya—I couldn’t find anyone to take you at the market. The only bard running around was that Schuester fellow, and I wouldn’t trust him with you.”_

_“So you’re just pawning me off on the first person you can find?”_

_“Kurt,” Burt said, suddenly stern, “if that were the case I would’ve just foisted you off on Schuester and been done with it. This is an opportunity!”_

_“For what?”_

_“Kurt, you’ll be playing for the Prince of the entire kingdom,” Burt insisted, leaning forward and looking earnestly into his son’s eyes, trying to get his point across._

_“Yes, a Prince who doesn’t even hold court!” Kurt cried in frustration. “A Prince who will be overthrown by the man I just basically told to get lost. What do you think Lord Smythe will do to me when he thinks I chose the man he wants to usurp over him? He’ll take over the whole castle, and he’ll probably keep the servants on, which means I’ll be in the exact position he wants me in anyway. You’re selling me out.”_

_“Enough, Kurt. You don’t know everything.”_

_“And what don’t I know? What could possibly have changed since you left?”_

_“Mike spoke to the Prince,” Burt said. Kurt stared. “He spoke to him about what the people are saying, what Sebastian wants. And if the Prince is commissioning new servants, that means he might not have given up hope yet.”_

_“Dad, one servant—“_

_“He took on Mike’s sweetheart as well. Tina. She’s a maid at the castle now.”_

_Kurt started to protest, but Burt cut him off._

_“Kurt, what if the Prince is listening to Mike? What if he’s finally going to get his act together and resurrect the court?”_

_“We can’t know that for sure, Dad,” Kurt said. “He’s only got a couple of months left anyway before Sebastian loses patience, you’re the one who told me those rumors.”_

_“And if he starts it up, that’s all the people will need,” Burt replied. “He doesn’t need to accomplish all of it in that time—he just has to show he means to rule again. Sebastian can’t do a damn thing without the support of the people.”_

_Kurt grew quiet, considering._

_“Kurt, there’s something else you need to know,” Burt said. “The position you’ll be in, you’ll probably end up being close to the Prince. Not as close as Mike, or any of his grooms, but you’ll be spending part of every day with him. You’ll have influence, even if you never speak to him directly. Those songs you sing, those tales you tell—they have the potential to get the Prince thinking. He was always a smart lad, and despite everything I don’t think that’s changed. Kurt, you have the chance to have the ear of the man who becomes King the day he marries. There’s only one or two people who get that privilege.”_

_“Dad, I’ll be a minstrel,” Kurt argued, “not an advisor.”_

_“You’re not listening. You realize that court minstrels throughout the ages have had influence over their rulers? All they have to do is make up a story and tell it, and that story stays with whoever hears it. If the story has a moral, a point that the minstrel is trying to get across, that sticks, too. You can’t tell me you don’t have a story about an evil king in that head of yours.”_

_“Of course I do—“_

_“Then tell it,” Burt said with finality. “Prince Blaine isn’t an idiot. He’ll know what you’re trying to say. He’ll make the connection.”_

_“But what if he doesn’t like what I have to hear? Won’t I be punished?”_

_“For a story? No,” Burt laughed. “All you have to do is insist the story’s been around for ages. No one can prove otherwise, even if you made it up on the spot.”_

_Kurt shook his head in wonder, staring at his father._

_“Why aren’t you one of the council, Dad? You’ve got this whole political thing well in hand.”_

_Burt smiled._

_“Who knows,” he said, “maybe when the Prince gets the court up and running again, and he makes that damn Sebastian heel, I’ll go for a spot. Wouldn’t be so bad, having a little influence, right?”_

_Kurt thought for a long moment, and Burt let him._

_“I’ll do it,” he said finally. “I don’t think I have much of a choice. And I’ll do my best to make him see the light, as it were.”_

_Burt smiled and stood. “Mike’s sending a carriage tomorrow. You’ll have to get your things ready by the morning.”_

_“Are you sure I could do it?” Kurt asked, biting his lip and letting his father see just how afraid he really was. “Do you really think he’ll listen to me? Do you really think he’ll take up the court again?”_

_Burt smiled._

_“If he isn’t at least considering it, I’d be surprised,” he said. “And if he isn’t now, he will be when you’re through with him.”_

 

 

So he’d packed his things, and early the next morning Mike had shown up with a carriage and loaded everything up. The goodbyes had been short, though Burt had pulled Kurt aside last minute and promised him that should Sebastian make a march, he’d pull Kurt back home as soon as he heard. Thus reassured, Kurt had started his journey with what he had to admit was some excitement.

This was what he had always wanted. To go to court, and amaze the fine noblemen and women with his voice. Granted, there was only one noble likely to hear him, but his blood was the most noble of all, and Kurt was going to be his personal minstrel. And if he could pull it off, Kurt could help influence the return of the court and the running of the kingdom. Of course, once that was established, he’d be happy to just be a simple minstrel and play his songs and stories for the lords and ladies of the court. It’d be more than Rachel Berry could ever hope for, anyway.

Mike stopped the carriage directly in front of the castle, and Kurt stepped out to help him with the trunk of his clothes and the few personal items he’d brought with him.

“We’re going to put you up in the servants’ quarters for now,” Mike said, carrying one end of the large wooden chest, another inheritance from Kurt’s mother. “Normally a minstrel would actually get a court apartment, but those aren’t…ready, at the moment. We’ve certainly got the room with us, though, so you can have a private chamber.”

Kurt was surprised, and said so as they reached the front doors and Mike set down his side of the trunk.

“Well, not a lot of us stayed after…you know,” Mike replied, grimacing as he pulled open one of the great doors by himself.

Kurt lifted the trunk by himself and walked through. Straight ahead of him, hanging on a small stretch of wall that opened up in a great arch on either side, was a painting, but it had been torn mostly apart. Kurt could see a few painted feet at the bottom, the only part of the painting that remained untouched.

“Come through here,” Mike said, heading to one of the big arches. Kurt lifted the trunk by himself again and followed, noting that either end of the hallway ended in wooden doors. “This is the court…or it used to be.”

Kurt gasped as he stepped through the arch. The room was huge—two stories high, a high dome at the center of the ceiling, large panes of glass letting in very little light through the dust. At the very center hung a huge chandelier that was hung with cobwebs and very old wax drippings from candles long burned away. The floor was marble, though Kurt couldn’t quite tell what exact color it would be beneath dust, wear, and the lack of light. The room was empty, otherwise, and echoed every step loudly. He wondered just how well the acoustics would carry his voice.

“Mike,” he said, a tiny part of him wanting to speak just to hear how he would sound. His voice carried through the whole space, bouncing off the walls and throwing back to him pleasingly.

“Hmm?” Mike paused, turning back. Kurt stopped and looked at his friend seriously.

“Is the Prince really cursed?”

Kurt immediately regretted asking as he watched Mike’s jaw tense and his normally open expression shut down.

“I don’t really believe in that stuff, actually,” he babbled, trying to save the moment, “I just…he’s been gone so long, and I always heard such amazing things about him, and I’m going to be…and he’s—and—“

“This way,” Mike said, turning and walking away. Kurt swore at himself, sighing and moving to follow as Mike was passing by the large staircases that ended on either side of the room. Kurt took a moment to look at how they swept up to the upper floor, ending in what looked to be a colonnade overlooking the court.

There was someone up there.

“Mike, wait!”

Kurt turned and saw Mike stop and turn. He jogged to catch up and then turned and looked up at the colonnade.

“I just saw—“

But the colonnade was empty.

“What did you see, Kurt?”

Kurt shook his head. “I guess I was imagining things.”

“Well, come through here,” Mike said, and he headed toward a small door at the northeastern end of the room. “I’ll show you your room, and then you have to get ready." 

“For what?” Kurt asked.

“For your first performance."

 

 

Kurt Hummel was nothing like what he had imagined.

When the carriage pulled up, sent specifically for his new guest—servant, he was a servant—Blaine had been watching from the old library on the second floor, which was so uncared for that dust and cobwebs lay over every last surface, including all of the books, most of which were moldy themselves. What he had seen had sent him back, startled, his back accidentally bumping the shelf behind him and sending up a massive amount of dust.

Kurt Hummel was beautiful.

Of course, he’d expected that. From what Mike had told him, Kurt had taken after his mother—a woman Mike described as beautiful, delicate, and pale. In his mind, he had painted a picture of Kurt as slight, soft, perhaps even slightly feminine.

He couldn’t have been further from the truth.

Kurt  _was_  pale, pale enough that he seemed almost to glow in sunlight. His hair was chestnut, shot through with shades of gold and copper. It was artfully swept above his head, and Blaine wondered how he kept it in a shape that clearly defied gravity. It looked unusually thick and well cared for, which was unusual—most men kept their hair deliberately short, or wore it in a tail at the nape of their neck so as to have little to do with it as possible. But Kurt seemed to take particular care despite the fact that he was clearly placing himself out of the norm for men. His face was stunning—full lips and high cheekbones.

However, that was where the difference from other men ended. Kurt looked tall, his legs long and lean. His shoulders were broad, his waist narrow. He had a strong jaw. His sleeves were loose, but Blaine could easily imagine his arms straining when he stretched and flexed carrying his trunk from the carriage.

Blaine wondered what he would look like up close.

He moved quietly into the colonnade that overlooked the court from above and acted as a main gallery, beautiful paintings commissioned by his forebears hung with sheets, though Blaine was never sure if he’d ordered them covered to protect them or to hide from them. He leaned against a column and looked over the railing just as Mike walked into the court.

“—it used to be.”

Mike’s voice carried up to where Blaine stood, hoping the shadows kept him well enough hidden. He watched Kurt follow behind, his back straining against the fabric of his tunic with the effort of carrying his things. Blaine tried not to pay the appealing curve of it too much attention.

And then he heard Kurt speak for the first time. High, clear as a bell. And asking the one thing Blaine had hoped he wouldn’t ask.

Blaine had honestly expected this moment, and hadn’t looked forward to it. But what else could he expect? He’d been hiding his face for seven years. The last time he’d left the castle, his brother had been killed. The people didn’t know the details, didn’t know the truth—they had to make up their own stories. It wasn’t uncommon in history for younger brothers to murder their elder siblings to claim titles, so at first everyone had suspected him of plotting Cooper’s death despite the fact that the two had always been close. But then Blaine hadn’t seized power. Not really. He’d squandered it, so the people were left to wonder just what he was hiding. And the fairy tales that had been told for generations had wormed their way through the channels of gossip, and people who normally didn’t believe in magic started to suspect a curse.  Those who left the castle after it became apparent Blaine wasn’t really ruling told others that the Prince never showed his face; that he kept himself hidden beneath a hood. So what was beneath the hood? What hideous monster had the Prince become to left him unable to perform his duties? Because surely something was preventing it, in a man who had always been a studious and dutiful boy.

So people speculated, and whenever he learned that someone had asked about him, he always felt either a desire to run or the urge to scream and rage at the asker and prove himself the beast they thought he was.

Never before had he had the urge to fall to his knees before someone and beg for them to see the truth.


	9. Chapter 8

Kurt tightened the simple black belt around his vest. He'd picked his finest clothing for his first performance for the Prince—first impressions were important, and he didn't want the Prince to be disappointed. He wore a simple white shirt beneath the vest, which was black, but Kurt had spent three weeks working intricate stitching into the design. He'd sacrificed months of market gifts from his father to procure real silver thread, and he was certain his father had had to learn some form of witchcraft to have gotten it so cheaply. He'd worked it through the thick fabric of the vest in patterns of vines and leaves, and it shone pleasingly. His breeches were simple grey cotton, tucked into black leather boots that came to his knee, another expensive addition to his wardrobe that he'd had to pay dearly for.

The last thing he did was pin his mother's brooch to his breast. It was heavy silver worked into the shape of a feather, and very old—passed down in her family. The weight of it felt reassuring, like she was with him, grounding him.

Thus dressed in the finest he could manage, Kurt picked up his lute, left his room, and walked down the hall to the room Mike had pointed out as his own. He lifted his hand to knock.

"Are you Kurt?"

Kurt turned and saw a small girl with dark hair and slanted eyes walking toward him. She was smiling widely, kindly.

"I am."

"I'm Tina," she said, holding out her hands. Kurt took them briefly in greeting and smiled back at her. Her cheerfulness was infectious.

"I've heard so much about you!" Kurt gushed. "Mike can hardly hold his tongue."

"I could say the same," she said. "He thinks so highly of your father."

"Everyone does." Kurt turned back to the door. "Is Mike here?"

"Of course." She opened the door and moved aside to let him in. "Come in."

The room was almost identical to his own—small, but not cramped. Kurt had expected to live in what amounted to a closet, but the servants' quarters were unusually generous. However, Kurt had never been to a castle, so perhaps things were different here than from the manors of Lords he had visited as a child.

Mike was seated at a small desk, scribbling away on a sheet of parchment. He looked up when they entered and smiled.

"You look very well, Kurt," he said. "I'm sure the Prince will be impressed. And possibly put out."

"Put out?" Kurt felt confused. Why on earth would his clothing affect the Prince in that way?

Mike laughed. "The Prince doesn't dress in the manner you're probably expecting. But you'll be fine—maybe he needs to be a little embarrassed. Come along, I'll explain what you're to do on our way to the dining hall."

Mike kissed Tina's cheek briefly before leading the way out of the room and down the hall toward the kitchens.

"Shouldn't the chamberlain be telling me my duties?" Kurt asked. "I thought you've mentioned one before."

"She's not in the castle at the moment. She went into Westerville for a few days to gather supplies for the castle."

Kurt laughed in surprise. "She? A female chamberlain? That's unusual."

Mike seemed hesitant about something, but he readily replied, "There is much unusual about this castle, I suppose. But given the circumstances, I don't think that's too surprising."

Kurt had to concede that.

"Now. You'll be in the hall before the Prince arrives," Mike explained, his voice echoing along the narrow corridor. "You'll be sitting on a stool off to one side, and you'll play your lute for the Prince while he sups. He'll come in not too long after you, he'll sit, and he'll eat—and that should be it. Just play softly, and if he asks you to sing or tell a tale, just do your best to oblige him."

They turned a few corners past the kitchen and pantries. Suddenly Mike stopped and turned to face Kurt.

"I need you to know something before we go in, Kurt," Mike said seriously. "The Prince is not what you think. I know the rumors and the gossip. It's not true. Keep in mind that Blaine is our age—he was just born to a different class. He's just like us. And he's a kind man, he's just had a hard life thrust upon him, and he has his reasons for…proceeding in the manner he has. Please don't judge him until you've gotten to know him for yourself."

Kurt blinked in surprise.

"I understand," he said, nodding. "Look, I'm sorry for asking earlier about a curse, it was stupid of me, and—"

"Don't worry about it." Mike put a friendly hand on Kurt's shoulder. "Anyone would have wondered, and I should have taken the time to explain. It's just a touchy subject. The Prince still struggles with…well, the situation. I was defensive on his behalf, and I should have known you meant nothing by it. You were just curious, as anyone would be."

"Thank you," Kurt replied, grateful for how reasonable and understanding Mike always was.

"Now," Mike said, "let's get you ready to play for the Prince."

 

* * *

 

Kurt tried not to fidget on his stool. The dining hall was grand, but not very well cared for—the dust that seemed to settle in the rest of the castle was, for the most part, missing, but the room was still dark and battered. The large wooden table wasn't polished, and wax drippings from the candles were built up over its surface. Across from where he sat was a dark staircase, and next to that a long, low fireplace, the flames crackling in a deceptively cheerful manner. Above the fireplace was what Kurt suspected was a painting, covered with a heavy sheet. Kurt stared at it, ignoring the other, uncovered paintings in the room—they weren't terribly interesting, and he was curious what was hiding behind the fabric.

He jumped when someone came into the room from the same door he'd entered by. He was faced with Mike again, who was accompanied by two other men. They were all carrying things to be placed on the table—plates of food, a goblet, a flask of wine, silverware, and the like. They set up the table quickly and efficiently, and Kurt marveled at how easy it seemed to them.

Then he noticed that the unfamiliar men were looking at him curiously. Kurt shifted uncomfortable, unsure of how to proceed.

"Kurt, these are Wes and David," Mike said casually, pointing to each as he said their names. "They're the Prince's grooms, though for the most part they actually run the crops and the beasts."

"Nice to meet you, Kurt," Wes said, nodding his head briefly. David smiled widely, waving a quick hand.

"The Prince will be in as soon as I go get him, so get ready," Mike said. "I'll be in here the whole time, attending the Prince, so you won't be alone. I'll cue you when to start, so keep an eye on me."

Kurt nodded, taking a deep breath and trying to take Mike's reassurance. He was just so  _nervous_.

This would be the first time he performed for anyone other than his family and friends. His first real audience. And it was the man who not only had the most power in the entire kingdom, but hadn't been seen in seven years because of what most people thought was a curse.

It was terrifying.

Kurt checked the tuning of his lute quickly as Mike slipped out of the room and back in within the space of a few minutes. He took up a position of careful attention at the head of the table and smiled at Kurt, who quickly wiped his sweaty palms on a kerchief he'd stuffed in his pocket.

The moment he'd replaced the cloth and settled again, the Prince walked into the room from the door leading into the court.

Kurt studied the man as quickly as he could, keeping Mike carefully in his periphery to await his cue. The Prince was…different than he expected. He'd once seen Prince Cooper riding through town shortly after his coronation, a moment that had sent the whole of Lima into an uproar, which the late Prince had seemed to enjoy thoroughly. He had been an outrageously handsome man, tall and broad on his white stallion, waving and smiling a white smile to his people, his dark hair falling gracefully into piercing blue eyes. Eight-year-old Kurt had been entirely impressed, and maybe a little infatuated.

Blaine appeared to be built from a different stock altogether as he burst into the room and quickly marched to his seat. He was slight—he looked so small, though Kurt wasn't sure if it was an illusion brought on from the Prince's clothes. Mike was right—the Prince wasn't dressed like Kurt had expected from royalty. He was wearing a thick leather jerkin, the sleeves of his white undershirt billowing out until they gathered at his wrist. His breeches were also leather. All the clothes were slightly too large, as though made for someone larger—Cooper, perhaps?—and Kurt wondered who the hell had let Blaine dress in clothes so ill-fitting. He itched to tailor them to a proper size.

He wished he could see the Prince's face, but it was hidden in a deep hood attached to the jerkin. He could just barely see the outline of what appeared to be a bearded chin in the depths, but he was afraid to look too closely.

Kurt locked his eyes onto Mike as the Prince settled in his seat. After a moment, Mike stepped forward to pour the Prince's wine, and he looked up at Kurt with a quick nod.

Kurt immediately started to play his lute. He'd thought of what he would play ahead of time, and his fingers moved through the notes of a simple dance tune. It was quiet and sweet and easy to play, so Kurt could focus on other things while playing.

He looked carefully up at Mike, who nodded from his place beside the Prince. So far so good.

He watched the Prince as he ate. He'd been expecting some level of refinement, but again the Prince surprised him. He ate like a normal young man, which always, to Kurt, resembled a starving man being told he had a limited time to finish his plate, but Kurt supposed he wasn't being very generous with that assessment. He had been raised to assume manners at all times, and this habit had, unfortunately, contributed to his reputation as fussy and self-important. He'd always assumed that the boys he grew up with were just pigs, but apparently most their age were less careful with their manners.

Or maybe the Prince had just forgotten himself over seven years. Kurt was too smart to consider asking anyone.

He finished the first tune and started another one, similar enough to the first to be almost indistinguishable. He figured it was safer to just stick with the simple tunes until he could figure out what the Prince would like best.

By the end of the third song, the Prince had finished his meal and was sitting back in his chair, sipping at his recently refilled goblet of wine. His head faced directly ahead, though Kurt couldn't see where his eyes were pointed. He looked at Mike for any clues, but Mike was also staring at the Prince, his brow slightly furrowed.

Huh…that was strange.

Then, suddenly, the Prince turned his head directly toward Kurt.

Kurt flubbed a note in his surprise, but thankfully the panic that swept over him didn't stop him from regaining himself and continuing the song as though nothing had happened. In fact, he would have been very proud of his recovery, had his cheeks not still burned with embarrassment. He looked determinedly at a point just above and behind the Prince's head, trying to fight down the blush as he did his best to continue playing.

_Don't look at him, don't look at him, don't look at him…_

"You may leave us."

Kurt paused in his playing and looked down immediately, checking to make sure the Prince was talking to him.

He wasn't.

The Prince had turned to face Mike, and Kurt started to panic. It must have shown on his face, because after Mike bowed to the Prince and started to leave, he turned to Kurt. He nodded and mouthed, "You're okay," before heading out towards the kitchens.

Kurt sat on his stool, completely unsure of what to do. What on earth would the Prince want to be alone with him for? Was he going to be berated for stumbling in the song? Was the Prince going to yell at him, or tell him to get out of the castle? Should he keep playing, or just sit here and wait for the Prince? Should he say something?

 _Like what?_  Kurt asked himself, fighting off the urge to curse.  _Nice castle. Shame about the dust._

"You're nervous."

Kurt startled. The Prince was looking at him—well, he was facing him, and Kurt couldn't see in the hood, but he could feel it, even if he couldn't quite see the Prince's eyes. The Prince was leaning back in his chair, turned to face Kurt, his elbow propped on the arm of the chair and his chin resting on his hand. He lifted his goblet and took a sip of wine as he, ostensibly, waited for Kurt to respond.

Kurt was very much aware of how his initial reaction to being accused of nervousness was to flinch like a startled bird, so he smiled as best he could and said, his voice too high and breathy, "Why ever would you think that, my lord?"

And then the Prince laughed.

It wasn't a loud laugh, or particularly long. It was a short, quick huff, but Kurt clearly saw that the Prince was smiling when he turned his head toward the fire briefly. There was something strange about his mouth, though—

Before Kurt could study the Prince more closely, he turned away from the fire again, staring back at Kurt.

"You needn't be anxious," he said. "You play very well."

Kurt didn't know if he should respond or not. The Prince had told him not to be anxious, but had he meant about his playing in particular, or had that just been a segue? He was too much of an unknown. But then Kurt remembered Mike saying that the Prince was a good man, and that Kurt would have to get to know him.

"My lord is too generous," Kurt said, bowing his head respectfully. "These songs are simple village tunes, and nothing impressive. I could teach any lout to play them, given the time."

"Then you are holding out on me," Blaine replied quickly, and Kurt was again nervous until he realized that the Prince was  _teasing him_.  _Maybe he is just like us…_

"I may have been, my lord." If he wanted to tease, Kurt could tease right back. "I wasn't sure if I should play my more complicated pieces."

"Oh? You think me uncultured?"

Kurt couldn't tell for a moment if the Prince was serious or not, given the deadpan voice he'd used, but Kurt opted to risk it. If the Prince were truly displeased, wouldn't he  _sound_  displeased?

_But he would sound pleased if he were pleased, too. Two sides to a coin, Kurt…_

"I think nothing of the sort," Kurt said, throwing caution to the wind and feigning offense. "I merely wanted to save my better pieces for later. I could hardly spoil you my first night."

"I hardly think one song will spoil me. Unless you only have one in your repertoire?"

Kurt glared at the Prince for a moment before remembering that  _it was the Prince_  and he probably shouldn't be acting so familiar. He quickly schooled his face into a more neutral mask and bowed his head in acquiescence.

"I would be happy to prove you otherwise, my lord."

He checked the tuning on his lute again while he thought of a song to play. Considering, he quickly settled on a sweet, melancholy little number his father had introduced him to. He'd told Kurt that he had once tried to serenade Elizabeth with it, but he was dreadfully tone deaf and, thankfully, it had ended in laughter on both parts.

Kurt would just have to do better.

_Come again, sweet love doth now invite…_

As he sang, the Prince remained completely still, and Kurt wondered if he was enjoying the tune. He wasn't protesting, but then, he wasn't reacting at all. It was almost worse than rejection, because he didn't know what to think. He'd been rejected all his life, and loudly—feeling uncertain was nerve wracking, and Kurt hoped the Prince was just listening intently and not ignoring him.

_Come again, that I may cease to mourn…_

As he started the second verse, he fell into the rhythm of the song and was able to really think. Whenever he had sung this song before, in the privacy of his home, he had always changed the pronouns, singing not to a girl, but to a boy. His own propensities granted this, and as he had never had an audience beyond those that already knew and accepted his inclination towards his own sex, it had never been an issue. Now, however, he wondered if he should change it back and pretend.

 _No,_  he thought.  _I won't hide who I am. If Lord Sebastian Smythe can run around and lust after men, I have the same right, peasant or no._

He stroked his lute like a lover, sweeping the strings gently in his fingers as he began the final verse.

_Gentle love, draw forth thy wounding dart:_

_Thou canst not pierce his heart;_

_For I that do approve._

_By sighs and tears,_

_More hot than are thy shafts,_

_Did tempt while he for scanty triumphs laughs._

He repeated the last three lines of the song, his voice soaring sweetly on the high notes and falling gently to the final beat. He strummed the final chord on the lute and fell silent, settling on his stool and waiting in silence for a reaction.

"You will play for me at supper each night," Blaine said suddenly, pushing his chair back from the table. "You will play your lute and sing as requested. Speak to Santana when she returns about what you can do with the rest of your time."

He stood and moved to the door. There, he paused, facing out the door as though ready to step through it at any moment.

"My only command is that you refrain from visiting the upper West wing of the castle, and as I'm sure your father informed you, you are not to touch the roses in the northern gardens. Otherwise, you are free to go where you please when you are not performing your duties."

Then Blaine turned his head, and Kurt felt him staring from the darkness. He instantly suspected that the Prince was going to reprimand him for being inappropriate in his song. He waited with bated breath, expecting with each passing second of silence to be scolded and told to keep his perversions to himself. It would fit nicely with the rest of Kurt's life, if the Prince were to be disgusted with him as everyone else had been his entire life.

 _Except Sebastian,_  a treacherous voice said in the back of his mind.  _Though he's a noble. Nobles are allowed to feel what you feel. Too bad you're a peasant._

"You are very talented," said the Prince. Kurt waited for the "but."

The Prince left the room. It never came.

 

* * *

 

Kurt returned to his rooms to find Mike waiting for him.

"How did it go?" he asked, jumping up from where he had seated himself at Kurt's desk.

Kurt took in a deep breath and let it out in a loud sigh, setting his lute carefully down on his bed.

"It went well, I think," he replied. "He told me not to be nervous, and…and I think he joked with me. Then I played a song for him and…and he just…"

Kurt thought back on the end of his time with the Prince and shook his head in confusion.

"I'm not sure if he liked my song or not," Kurt said honestly. "He was so short when I finished. He just…gave orders for me to play when he sups, told me to stay away from his roses and the West wing. And then he called me talented and walked out."

"Why would you think he didn't like it if he called you talented?"

"Because I changed the pronouns," Kurt said. "I sang as though to a man, not a woman. I…didn't want to lie about that part of me, or hide it. And I thought the Prince might be displeased."

Mike laughed loudly and suddenly, as though startled, and Kurt jumped, staring at him.

"What's so funny?" he demanded, a little indignant at being laughed at.

"Oh, Kurt," Mike said, "the Prince would not be displeased with you for that."

"Then why was he so…churlish? He'd been  _friendly_  until I sang that song."

"What song did you sing?"

"I sang  _Come Again, Sweet Love_. It was the first thing that popped into my head."

Mike was shaking his head, a fond smile on his face. He placed a gentle hand on Kurt's shoulder.

"You did well, my friend," he said. "I can assure you the Prince was not displeased."

"How do you know?"

Mike paused, looking down, his face contemplative. When he looked up, Kurt got the sense that he was being cautious in some way.

"I know the Prince well," he said slowly. He was choosing his words carefully; he always spoke slowly when he was trying to be tactful or discreet. "And I am certain that he enjoyed your performance. If he had not, I am certain you would not have been invited back to perform again."

Kurt nodded, biting his lip. He wasn't entirely sure how he felt about everything.

"I'm just…concerned about how brusque he was at the end, considering how… _warm_  he was just after you left."

Mike's eyes narrowed, but it was only for a moment. Then he was patting Kurt's shoulder before heading to the door.

"I know the Prince can be confusing at times," he said, his hand on the door, "but I wouldn't worry myself if I were you. You'll get to know him soon enough, and his behavior won't seem so strange."

"Wait, Mike," Kurt said as Mike made to leave, "he said I had to speak to Santana when she came back? Is that the chamberlain?"

Mike laughed again, and said, "Yes, that's her. I'll come get you when she gets back and is ready to speak to you; probably tomorrow afternoon."

Kurt nodded. They bade each other goodnight and Kurt settled in and readied for bed. His first night in a strange place that was his new home.

 

* * *

 

Blaine shut the door to his room behind him heavily, turning to lean his back against it when it was shut.

Kurt had been even more stunning up close. He sat perched on that uncomfortable stool with the utmost grace, balanced perfectly with his long legs crossed. His face was serene, beautiful and pale and so, so captivating as he played his lute with slender, skillful fingers. He'd been dressed impeccably, his vest accentuating the breadth of his shoulders.

He was  _perfect_.

And his  _voice_. He'd spoken softly, the sound sweet to Blaine's ears, but when he'd begun to  _sing._  The voice of an angel, the voice of the  _gods_ , and singing only for him. He was glad he'd sent Mike away, though he'd only done it at first because he wanted to show Kurt that he needn't be afraid. No, it was best that he heard Kurt alone that first time, that he could hold that moment as a precious gift. He hadn't even been able to  _move_  for the effect Kurt had on him—he was still shocked he'd been able to compose himself enough to instruct Kurt afterwards, let alone  _leave_  when all he wanted was to stay.

He had never wanted to stay anywhere more. But what would he have said? Kurt did not know him, and since his  _accident_  Blaine had been so isolated, had isolated  _himself_  so much, that he felt he could only make a fool of himself. He had only had conversations, full conversations, with two people in the past seven years, and they were both his servants.

 _Kurt is your servant, too,_ a treacherous voice whispered in the back of his mind.

"My lord?"

Blaine looked up to see Mike slipping through the concealed door. Blaine lowered his hood—Mike was one of the few people whom he trusted to see him without it—and ran a hand through his curls, striding forward into the room and trying to gather some semblance of composure.

"What is it, Mike?"

"I just spoke with Kurt," he said. "Blaine, what are you doing?"

"I don't know what you mean," Blaine replied, perhaps a little too quickly. Mike knew him better than anyone.

"You like him."

Blaine paused, and then sat down heavily on the chest at the foot of his bed, his head falling into his hands.

"I have no idea what I'm doing."

Blaine shot up from the chest and started pacing.

"He's everything you said and more, Mike," he continued. "I had him sing when you left, and nothing could have prepared me."

"You sent for him for a reason, didn't you?" Mike asked. "Because of what I told you about him."

"It's not like I planned this!" Blaine burst out, gesticulating wildly. "Fine—I admit to being intrigued by your descriptions. And when I caught his father with my rose,  _yes_ , I acted on impulse. I knew he'd send Kurt rather than his brother. I thought perhaps…I don't know  _what_ I thought," he admitted. He sank back down onto the chest. "I wanted to meet him and I had no idea how to go about it. And now that I have, I am baffled as to how to proceed."

"With your permission, Blaine, I would like to be blunt." When Blaine waved his permission, Mike stepped forward and crossed his arms. "What the hell do you mean, proceed?"

Blaine stared up at Mike, completely shocked at the sharpness in Mike's tone.

"Kurt is your servant," Mike continued, "brought here without choice. Now, you should know he's not displeased—he's doing what he's always wanted to do, though I'm sure the state of the castle he's always wanted to perform at is somewhat lacking. But how long is this going to last? You know we're on borrowed time here. And who knows what Sebastian will do with you when he gets here; who knows what he'll do with  _any_  of us! What were you expecting to do? Court him for a month and then say your goodbyes?"

Blaine hung his head.

"I have no idea, Mike," he admitted again. "I have no idea what I'm doing. I just wanted to meet him and I acted rashly and I have no idea what to do next."

"You always have one option, Blaine," Mike said quietly. "You know you do."

"I don't know if I can," Blaine whispered, sighing and staring at the floor.

"Then figure out what you can do, and we'll do our best."

Mike turned to leave. Blaine called his name, stopping him.

"Thank you."

Mike nodded and left Blaine alone with his thoughts.

What  _was_  he doing? He certainly did want to know Kurt better, but it wasn't that simple. He didn't have a clue how to go about it, and Mike didn't seem to want to help. He certainly wasn't going to ask Santana. And Mike was right—how much time did he really have? His birthday was fast approaching, the unspoken deadline to his time here.

He walked to the windows of his chambers and looked out at the darkened grounds, recalling a time when they were well cared for and lush with care and not wild from neglect. He remembered servants and courtiers and nobles and his father and brother presiding over court. He remembered grand festivals and parties and banquets, and time spent hunting and fishing and practicing his weapons with Cooper and his friends. What if Cooper hadn't died? What if Kurt had come sooner? What if he'd never become this  _monster_? Would Kurt have looked twice, would he have noticed Blaine? Would Blaine have approached him, the beautiful musician? Would they have bonded over music? Blaine had been a dutiful student of every subject, but he'd excelled in what little music he'd studied. Would he and Kurt have sung together, played together, lived together? Gotten to know each other and become friends, or lovers?

_What am I thinking._

Kurt would never have looked his way. He probably would've fallen in love with Cooper—handsome, charming Cooper. He would never have known Blaine existed—he was far too beautiful, far too grand.

But still, Blaine drifted to sleep that night dreaming of what could have been.

 

* * *

 

That night, across the castle, Kurt dreamt of a man with smooth, blank flesh instead of a face asking him for a kiss. He awoke unsure of whether or not it was a nightmare.


	10. Chapter 9

The next day, Mike called Kurt out of his room just after sunrise, insisting he meet the rest of the servants for breakfast. They went to the kitchens, where a small woman with red hair and big brown eyes that Mike introduced as Emma nervously shooed them through with an order to touch nothing. Mike quickly lead Kurt out the far side and into a wide room on the other side that held a long, beaten table with rickety wooden benches lined up along its sides.

“Everyone,” he called as they walked through, and the several people seated at the table looked up at them, “this is Kurt, the new court minstrel.”

“But he doesn’t look like a girl,” a pretty blonde girl sitting next to Tina said, staring at him blankly, “and it’s not due for another two weeks.”

Kurt tilted his head, trying to figure out what she was saying, but when he turned to Mike to ask the man shook his head minutely. Kurt made a note to ask later.

“You know Tina,” Mike said, “and that’s Brittany sitting next to her. They’re his Majesty’s maids.”

Kurt nodded hello at the blonde girl, who was quietly whispering something to Tina, who was shaking her head and whispering back.

“You know Wes and David—“ the two nodded at Kurt, smiling around their plates of food “—and that’s Mercedes, she’s head of the household. She keeps Tina and Brittany busy cleaning what they can manage.”

Kurt smiled at the curved, dark-skinned woman smiling a wide, white grin at him. She waved them over, and Mike slipped onto the bench near Tina. Kurt sat next to Mercedes.

“You have no idea how nice is to have someone new around here,” she said, her eyes bright and friendly. “These idiots get boring after a while.”

“Oh, come on, Mercedes, we’re not that bad,” said a man sitting across from them that Mike hadn’t named. His hair was shaved very close but for a stripe down the center of his head, and Kurt recognized it from stories his father brought back from markets—the mark of a warrior of some nomadic people that occasionally came into the kingdom on raids or trade caravans. Rachel claimed to be descended from them somewhere back, but Kurt had never been sure if she was lying to garner attention or if it were true, her mother having disappeared shortly after her birth.

“That’s Puck,” Mercedes said. She pointed at a blonde man next to him, “That’s Sam. They used to be the Prince’s guards, when he actually needed guarding against anything but bats.”

“Welcome to Dalton,” Sam said, smiling hopefully. “So are you going to be helping in the fields, or what?”

Mike cut in then, laughing.

“He’s got to talk to Santana later, but I don’t think he will, Sam,” he said, and Sam looked disappointed. “I don’t think he’ll be able to play the lute very well if his hands get cut up with those tools you use.”

“You make a good point,” Sam said, returning to his meal. Puck snorted, and Mercedes immediately glared over at him.

“What can you do?” Mercedes asked Kurt kindly, waving off Puck when he started to make faces at her. “Besides play the lute and sing pretty songs. We don’t have a lot of room for luxury around here, unfortunately, so we’ve all got to chip in where we can. The castle would fall apart otherwise.”

“I can sew,” Kurt said, “and cook a little.”

“Well, you won’t be putting  _that_ skill to work,” Mercedes said. “Emma won’t let anyone near the kitchens.”

“She’s a tyrant,” Wes agreed suddenly, looking up from his plate. “Good luck if you want to eat anything without her permission.”

“She just likes to have order, guys,” Mike said, ever the diplomat.

“Anyway,” Mercedes said loudly, taking control of the conversation again, “that leaves sewing. How good are you?”

“He made that outfit he’s wearing now,” Tina said, leaning over like she was imparting some juicy secret. “And you should’ve seen the one he wore last night. It was  _gorgeous_.”

“I have to see it,” Mercedes insisted, laying a hand on Kurt’s arm.

“You should come by my rooms later,” Kurt said delightedly. “I can show you what I have.”

Mercedes clapped and nodded enthusiastically, smiling.

“We have time before Santana gets back, right Mike?”

Mike muttered something in the affirmative just as Emma came sweeping in with two plates in her hands.

“Okay, boys, eat up,” she said, placing them in front of Mike and Kurt before scurrying out again.

“Don’t mind her,” Mercedes said as Kurt started to eat his meal. “She’s just convinced we’re all going to make her sick or dirty or something. She doesn’t mean anything by it. Now I’m going to get things settled for the day, and I’ll drop by your room later, okay?”

Kurt nodded, waving and smiling as she left. 

 

 

A couple hours later Kurt was sitting in his room, playing his lute. He ran through as many songs as he could think of, practicing them for the Prince and picking out ahead of time what he would play, choosing a few simple lute songs and a few where he would sing.

“You play really well, Kurt.”

Mercedes was peeking her head around his door, which he’d left open in anticipation of her visit.

“Thank you,” he said, placing the lute down.

“You’re welcome,” she replied. “Now, show me these wonderful clothes of yours.”

They spent quite a while going through Kurt’s things, Mercedes cooing over pieces she liked particularly well. She’d adored the vest he’d worn for the Prince, running her hands over it and admiring it for several minutes.

“You know, these are really great,” she said. “We should have Mike show some of them to the Prince.”

“We can’t show him ourselves?”

Mercedes looked at Kurt like he’d grown a second head.

“The Prince doesn’t really talk to any of us, Kurt,” she explained, as though to a child. “He keeps to himself. If you want to talk to him or ask him anything, you have to go through Mike or Santana. Even Wes and David don’t talk to him much, and they were his grooms—no one gets closer to a Prince, except for someone in Mike’s position.”

Kurt almost mentioned that Blaine had spoken to him the previous night, and more than a few words at that, but he wasn’t sure if it was because it was his first night. He decided it’d be better not to say anything, though—he didn’t want to seem like he was bragging, especially if it was a fluke and the Prince had nothing further to say to him.

“Well, maybe I will have Mike show him,” Kurt said instead. “I could probably make him something better than what he was wearing last night—nothing fit.”

“We haven’t had someone who could sew in years,” Mercedes admitted. “I mean, for our clothes, what we can do is fine—we don’t need to look good with nobody but each other to impress. But a Prince shouldn’t be walking around in his brother’s old clothes.”

So Kurt’s suspicions had been correct. Blaine was walking around in Cooper’s clothes. He wondered if there was some deliberate, bitter symbolism about that—trying to fit in his brother’s place, but being just a bit too small.

Or maybe it was just because Blaine didn’t care. Who could tell?

“I only hope the Prince decides he  _should_  have better clothes,” Mercedes continued in a loud whisper, as though imparting juicy information that she hoped someone would overhear. “I mean…nobody knows if he’s going to shape up before next month, but we can all hope, right?”

“I doubt some new clothes are going to make the Halfling into a proper Prince.”

Mercedes gasped and spun around at the same time as Kurt, who had startled at the new voice. Standing before him, in the open doorway, was a beautiful woman with a body most would kill for—Kurt could just  _see_  Finn drooling on himself over her. But her voice was harsh and her eyes sharp, and Kurt immediately felt defensive, despite the fact that he could see Mike standing behind her.

“You can’t call him that, Santana!” she berated. “What if—“

“What if what?” Santana challenged, stepping into the room. “No one here talks to the Prince but me and Mike here, and neither of us are going to say anything.”

She turned her eyes on Kurt.

“So this is the Prince’s new toy, huh?” She smirked. “I don’t know why—maybe if Blaine did anything but sulk around all day, but what do I know. Maybe lady lips here will suck him right out of his rut.”

“Santana, enough,” Mike said. “The Prince wants you to work with Kurt on what he can do when he’s not performing. As you can see, Kurt is skilled with a needle—“

“—I bet he is—“

“—and can provide clothing for the Prince.”

“Why?” she shot back. “Not like he’s worn anything worth seeing since he was a kid. No one’s been around to  _see_  it.”

“And we’re all hoping that will change,” Mike said, stepping between Kurt and Santana. “I’m sure there are supplies for clothing a Prince somewhere in storage? Or perhaps we can pick some up at the next trip into town?”

Santana eyed Mike suspiciously.

“Whatever,” she said. “Not like Porcelain here could even  _do_  hard labor. I’m surprised he can even lift his lute.”

“Ignore her,” Mercedes said, turning to Kurt with a wry smirk. “She’s just upset that no one consulted her when you were sent for.”

“I’m the chamberlain!” Santana cut in. “I get the say on who gets hired here, and it’s not like we can afford another mouth around here.”

“The Prince gets the say, doesn’t he?” Kurt snapped. “And if I recall, he requested me himself.”

“Yeah, and you came just in time to leave again.” Santana stared down at him. “Fine. You’ll get your fabric and thread or whatever. And you can play for the Prince all you want. But I’m pretty sure Sebastian’s already got a clothier and despises minstrels, so you’ll be out on your ass soon enough.”

Kurt blanched, and couldn’t bring himself to correct the smug smile Santana threw him as she abruptly left. She thought he feared being thrown out— _if only_.

“Well,” Mike said, “that went better than I expected.”

Kurt eyed him incredulously.

“No, he’s right,” Mercedes said, giggling. “In Santana-speak, she basically gave you a welcome hug.”

“Is there anyone else I have to worry about meeting?” Kurt asked. “I’m not sure I can handle another first encounter like that.”

“You’ve met everyone but Beiste, the Armsmaster,” Mike said, “and you won’t meet her unless you go to the practice grounds or visit the fields when she’s working. But she’s not bad.”

Kurt nodded, feeling a little overwhelmed, and, for the first time, homesick, even though it had only been a day.

“We’ll leave you alone for a bit,” Mike said, obviously reading Kurt’s mood, gesturing for Mercedes to join him. “You can practice for tonight or relax or wander if you want—just be at the dining hall for supper, same time as last night.”

“I’ll be there,” Kurt said.

“See you then."

Mike left, and Mercedes followed, waving and calling out a soft goodbye. Kurt turned and folded up his clothes before settling again, picking up his lute and playing with it while he tried to process everything. 

 

 

“Do you know any stories?”

It was a few nights later. Each night, Kurt had played for the Prince, though he hadn’t been asked to sing again, nor had they had another conversation, so Kurt was caught a bit off guard at Blaine’s request. He continued to pluck out random notes on his lute, playing simply for the noise as Blaine shoved away his half-eaten meal and sipped at his wine.

“Many, my lord,” Kurt replied, nodding. “Would you like to hear one?”

Blaine simply nodded, humming in the affirmative. Kurt nodded in return, playing a few more notes on his lute while he thought of what story to tell.

He had plenty of stories to choose from, ones that he had been told all his life, ones that he had read in the small collection of books his mother had left behind, ones that he had created as a lonely child with no friends to play with. But his father’s words rang in his ears.

_“Those songs you sing, those tales you tell—they have the potential to get the Prince thinking.”_

“There is an old tale my mother used to tell me as I fell asleep at night, my lord,” Kurt said, preparing to head off any suspicions the Prince could have ahead of time. “One of my favorites.”

The Prince waved his hand for Kurt to proceed, settling in his chair. Behind him, Mike refilled his wine and stood back, nodding encouragingly at Kurt.

“Have you ever heard of the kingdom of Sylvester, my lord?”

Blaine shook his head, and Kurt had the impression that he was smiling.

“It is a far away kingdom, my lord,” he continued, “and very, very old. Its queen was just as old as it was, and her name was Doris. She had two daughters, and her daughters were as different as could be. The elder was named Jean, and she was the sweetest lady that the kingdom had ever seen. She was kind, and loved her people more than life itself, and the people loved her, too. And everyone was happy she was the elder, because her younger sister Sue was evil and cruel and no one wanted her to rule.

“The day came when Doris passed, and the kingdom fell to Jean. All the kingdom celebrated, because they could not have asked for a better queen. But one person was not celebrating.”

“Sue,” Blaine said, startling Kurt. Kurt beamed and nodded—it was always a pleasure when someone enjoyed a story enough to participate.

“Sue,” Kurt agreed. “She ran away to plot in secret and raise an army to steal the kingdom from Jean.”

Kurt took a deep breath. Time for the plunge.

“Jean was so sad at the disappearance of her sister that she stopped going out to see her people,” he said, hoping his voice was steady. “She withdrew from court and pined for her beloved sister, never knowing that all that time, Sue plotted to take the kingdom away from her.”

Kurt paused for a moment, trying to read the room. Blaine was impossible to read, but behind him, Mike was wide-eyed. Kurt scolded himself internally, wishing that perhaps he should have consulted Mike beforehand or come on a bit less strong, but there was no turning back now.

“The kingdom mourned the loss of their dear queen, praying for her return every day, and every day hoping that Sue would not act on her nefarious plot. But the time came when Sue stormed the castle, convinced she would be queen by nightfall.

“Jean stayed hidden away, and her love for her sister was so great that she was going to let her take over the kingdom, never realizing just how wicked Sue really was. She was convinced that it was best for her sister and her people. So Jean planned to surrender.

“But the people would not have it,” Kurt continued, his voice strong with conviction as he neared the end of his tale. “They loved Jean too much, and they rose up to defend her. Sue’s regiments could not defeat them, and when Jean saw what their love for her was accomplishing, she emerged from hiding and stepped forward to rule her people once more.”

Kurt fell silent. Behind Blaine, Mike looked particularly pale. Kurt felt himself blanching—had he erred that badly?

“Would you like to know how the story really ends?”

Kurt snapped his attention back to Blaine, who had gone rigid.

“My lord?”

“I asked you if you want to know how the story really ends.”

Kurt felt a cold dread form in the pit of his stomach, strengthened by the chill in Blaine’s voice. Kurt swallowed nervously and bowed his head.

“As you wish, my lord.”

“Sue wins,” Blaine snapped, smacking his goblet off the table as he stood. It flew across the room and clattered to the floor, spilling wine everywhere. “The people never rise for Jean, because the people do not care. They would never defend a ruler that had abandoned them.”

“My lord—“

“Leave us,” Blaine said, cutting Mike off sharply. Mike looked uncertainly between them, but he turned and left the room quickly. Kurt felt a cold sweat starting on the back of his neck.

“Do you think me an idiot?” Blaine asked, his hands clenching by his sides.

“No, my lord,” Kurt replied, his hands feelings heavy and awkward where they rested on his lute, holding it dead in his lap like it could somehow protect him. “I assure you this tale has been around for centuries—“

“I never questioned that,” Blaine growled, advancing a step. “But you cannot expect me to believe that you chose it arbitrarily.”

“Perhaps not, my lord,” Kurt admitted, raising his eyes to stare at where he hoped Blaine’s eyes were, hidden in darkness. If he was going to be in trouble for the story, he might as well earn it. “Perhaps I  _hoped_  that you were not an idiot and would take the story as it was meant.”

Blaine visibly froze, and Kurt stared back at him unwaveringly.

“You would dare—you would…”

“Yes, my lord,” Kurt said, nodding. “I would dare, if it would make a difference.”

“You are excused from my presence,” Blaine snapped, turning his back on Kurt pointedly. “Get out.”

Kurt paused, staring at the Prince’s back for a moment. Was that it? He wasn’t going to be put to death or banished?

 _There’s still time_   _for that if you anger him further_.

“Yes, my lord,” Kurt said, bowing at Blaine’s back before leaving the room as quickly as he could without sacrificing his dignity.

“What the hell was that?”

Kurt stopped, turning. Mike was waiting for him, arms crossed, eyebrows drawn down in anger.

“That was stupid, Kurt,” Mike scolded. “What did you think was going to happen?”

“I didn’t expect anything to happen, Mike,” Kurt replied, feeling weary. “But I couldn’t just sit there.”

“You don’t have any idea how to handle Blaine—“

“No,” Kurt snapped, “but maybe he doesn’t need to be  _handled_. Maybe he needs to be told the truth.”

With that, he stalked away. 

 

 

Blaine returned to the dining hall as quietly as possible so as not to alert Mike that he had been eavesdropping. He’d intended to find his manservant in the first place, but what Kurt said was ricocheting around his head.

_Maybe he doesn’t need to be handled._

Was that all Mike had been doing all these years? Just coddling him, hoping he’d come to his senses one day?

 _Maybe he needs to be told the truth_.

What had been kept from him? He had always trusted his servants, and he was sure they never lied to him, but why would Kurt say that? Were they withholding from him, or toning down the reality so that he would not become upset?

Blaine prowled to the mantle and reached up, grasping the heavy sheet above. He ripped it down and stepped back out of the way of the cloud of dust that fell with it. He turned and grabbed the wineskin, drinking from it directly.

“Were you right all along, father?” Blaine asked, staring up at painting. It was a portrait of a severe looking man with a strong face and piercing blue eyes—eyes he had passed to Cooper but not to Blaine. “Am I as weak as you always told me?”

He drank again, deeply, wiping his lips on his sleeve when he spilled.

“You’d be so pleased to be right!” he shouted, spreading his hands, as though inviting the painting to come to life and attack. “I have spent seven years proving you correct. I could not step up and be a man, I have never been a man to you. And I have not been a man to anyone else either. They treat me like a  _child_.”

He drained the remainder of the wine and threw the skin to the ground, pacing in front of the fire, casting his eyes up angrily at his father’s face.

“It’s ironic, isn’t it?” Blaine snarled, shaking his head. “Mike has told me everything about Kurt—how he was told his whole life that he wasn’t a man. But he’s certainly acting like one, and despite the fact that anyone else would have had him flogged for his impertinence, he’s the only one treating me like one as well.”

He stopped directly in front of the portrait, hands on hips, legs spread, shoulders back. He hadn’t stood so tall in years. He stared up, throwing back his hood and feeling as though, even through death, his father was staring directly at him.

“I can’t believe he spoke to me like that,” he said. “I only wish I had had the nerve to speak to  _you_  like that. I only wish I had that courage. Maybe then Cooper would still be here and I would be gone instead.”

He wiped his eyes quickly and looked up again, as though for an answer.

“Isn’t that what you would’ve wanted?”


	11. Chapter 10

The next morning, Kurt woke feeling apprehensive. In the moment the night before, he had found the strength to be unafraid of his stand in front of the Prince, but over the course of the night, tossing and turning and slipping in and out of fitful sleep, Kurt started to question his choice to be so forward. He could have easily apologized and demurred, but instead he stood his ground and basically yelled at his Prince.

He couldn’t help but wonder just how the hell he’d gotten away with that, or if maybe he hadn’t and the worst was still coming.

He washed quickly in the basin of water he’d fetched for himself the night before and dressed absently. He had no idea what he was supposed to be doing, or if anything had been really decided after Santana’s visit the day before.

He wandered down the hall to the kitchens, passing by Emma with a quick hello as he slipped into the other room. Santana and Brittany were the only ones there, sitting abnormally close and laughing quietly as they whispered to each other. Kurt felt he was intruding on something.

“Why, hello there, Kurt,” Santana said, smirking at him. “I heard you caused quite a stir with our dear Prince last night.”

“Were they cooking?” Brittany asked. Kurt cocked his head at Santana, wondering how fast gossip travelled in the castle.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Santana said, obviously ignoring Brittany’s question. “Mike had to tell me how you’ve been doing, and it’s not like he could ignore you flubbing an attempt to manipulate the ruler of the kingdom and then telling him to his face that he was an idiot.”

“I didn’t actually call him an idiot—“

“Oh, don’t worry about getting into trouble with me. I’m impressed.”

Kurt stared. “Impressed?”

“Sure am.” Santana picked at her food, sitting back and eyeing Kurt like she was seeing him for the first time. “Blaine’s had something up his ass for seven years now, and no one’s had the balls to mention it because they know he’ll explode. But you go right ahead and call him on all of his shit after only a couple of days. I’ll admit, I didn’t think you even  _had_  balls…but I guess I was wrong.”

“I’m not sure if I should thank you,” Kurt said, sitting down across the table from them.

“Oh, you should,” she replied. “I don’t admit that often. So would you like to know what happened after you left?”

Kurt raised an eyebrow. “Go on.”

“Apparently Mike found the Prince stinking drunk in the dining hall, and—“

“Enough, Santana.”

Mike walked in, carrying two plates, one of which he set in front of Kurt.

“I told you that in confidence,” Mike said. “It’s no one’s business but the Prince’s.”

“Oh, please, you know we all find out everything sooner or later,” Santana replied smoothly. “Secrets can’t hide in this castle.”

“It’s true,” Brittany said unexpectedly, startling Kurt a bit. “I think it’s because there are spiders in all the best hiding spots.”

“So anyway,” Santana said, again ignoring the other girl, “you’ll both be interested to know what orders I got this morning. And you don’t have to get your undergarments in a twist, Mike, because they concern all of us.”

“What are they?” Mike asked.

“Well, I’m to take Hummel here down to the storerooms to see if there’s any fabric that hasn’t been either sold or thrown away. And later you’re taking him to the Prince’s chambers to measure him. Apparently the Prince wants a new outfit. So I’ll be coming to get your from your rooms in a little bit.”

“So wait, you spoke to the Prince after last night?” Kurt asked, watching as Santana stood and started to walk to the door, Brittany close behind. “Did he say anything about it? Am I in any trouble?”

“Well, I’d tell you, but Mike here didn’t seem to want me to tell you the story, so you’ll have to wait to find out.”

Kurt turned and glared at Mike as soon as she was out of sight.

“Don’t look at me like that, Kurt,” Mike said. “Santana’s just being…Santana.”

“And you’re being difficult,” Kurt spat back. “You don’t have to tell me everything that happened after last night, but I would appreciate _something_. Is the Prince all right?”

Mike blinked. “You want to know if he’s all right?”

“Well, Santana was saying that he was drunk.”

“You’re telling me you’re concerned with his well-being?”

“Yes?”

“Why did you say that like a question?”

“Because I’m confused!” Kurt burst out. “Why are you avoiding my question?”

Mike stared at Kurt hard. Kurt squirmed, baffled at Mike’s behavior.

“He’s fine,” Mike said finally. “As I’m sure you guessed, he was rather upset last night, but he seems to have recovered himself enough to ask for you today. I can’t say honestly that I know if he’ll reprimand you further, but he’s not planning to take any action against you.”

Kurt nodded, toying with the food on his plate. His stomach roiled, and his hunger suddenly dissipated.

“I’m going to my rooms,” he announced, standing swiftly and slipping out before Mike could protest.

When he got to his rooms, he slammed the door behind him, running his fingers through his hair nervously. Had he really upset the Prince that much? He hadn’t meant to  _harm_  him in any way, he had just wanted to let the Prince know that he had support if he were to resume his place, and that it was the best option. But apparently the Prince was hurt enough that he had become totally inebriated and now Mike was suspicious of his motives.

He felt he needed to make an apology to the Prince. 

“Come on, Princess,” Santana drawled, his door slamming open without preamble. “Let’s go brave the dusty depths of the stores in the basement to see if there’s anything pretty enough for a Prince.”

Kurt stood from where he was seated on the bed and fidgeted slightly.

“What?” Santana said, eyebrow immediately raised.

“I won’t be needing to go to the stores today,” Kurt said, gesturing weakly to the bed beside him. “I believe this should do?”

Santana walked up and crossed her arms, cocking a hip as she stared down at the fabric Kurt had lain out.

“Is this yours?”

“Unless someone’s been sneaking things into my room at night, then yes,” Kurt replied dryly.

“Don’t get smart with me, lady,” she spat, and Kurt found himself not caring nearly as much as he had when people had called him that in his hometown. “Are you telling me that you’re going to make the Prince something out of your own stuff?”

“Yes?”

“You bought these materials yourself?”

“Yes!”

“You must really be hoping to buy your way into an apology,” she said frankly.

“That’s not it, Santana,” Kurt replied quickly. “I mean…I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t part of it, but I really do just…”

“Just what?” She eyed him with a shrewd, calculating look on her face.

“I want to…help him out, a little,” he admitted. “Show him that…that he isn’t totally abandoned yet.”

“You think you can single-handedly make Blaine grow a pair and rule his kingdom again?”

“No!” Kurt blurted. “No, not by myself. But maybe I can…nudge him a little. Make him see that I’m just one of many who  _would_.”

“Are you? One of many? Or do the people really just not give a shit? Because I haven’t heard a damn word when I go into town.”

Kurt stared at her. “People know you’re the chamberlain, right?”

“Of course.”

“Do you really think they’re going to talk to you?”

Santana grimaced. “Point.”

“My father heard plenty,” Kurt said. “And yes, a lot of people are convinced the Prince is cursed, or something’s wrong with him, but I cannot name a single person not in the pay of Lord Smythe that wants him to take over rather than the Prince.”

“So it’s a case of picking the lesser of two evils,” Santana said, and Kurt sighed deeply.

“I wish I could say that weren’t true,” he replied softly. “But can you really expect anything else?”

Santana stared him down, again looking like she was trying to read him. After a moment, she smirked, her eyes warming a bit.

“You know, you’re not that dumb,” she said. “Come on, grab your things and then you can put His Highness in some clothes that don’t make him look like he’s a five year old playing dress up.”

He had never heard the title used so wryly before. 

Mike could tell Blaine was feeling insecure. It was in the way he kept forgetting that he had his hood up and having to awkwardly drop his hands every time he tried to run his hand through his hair. It was in the way he paced. It was in the way he muttered to himself.

Kurt had gotten to him. Mike would never have guessed it, but it was true. Blaine  _never_  got drunk, but last night Mike had returned to the dining room to find Blaine had consumed the entire wineskin left from dinner. And he’d been  _crying_.

Blaine hadn’t cried since Cooper’s death.

As he’d dragged Blaine to his rooms, Blaine had started babbling. He’d clung to Mike’s shoulders and slurred on about being a disappointment, and being scared and tired. He’d cursed Cooper for dying, and then cursed himself. And then he’d gone on to wax as eloquent as his inebriation would allow about Kurt—his honesty, his bravery, his beauty, his temerity. He started off reviling the poor boy, raging on about how he knew nothing and presumed too much, but then Blaine had suddenly softened and called Kurt his angel, sent to give him a message. He’d then promptly passed out.

He’d mentioned his worry to Santana, which, if he had interrupted what he thought he had at breakfast that morning, was a bad idea, in retrospect.

Mike knew all along that Blaine was drawn to Kurt—Kurt affected him, made him think and act differently. Mike was certain it was some mixture of curiosity, attraction, and loneliness. But he was beginning to think that maybe he’d underestimated Kurt; maybe Kurt understood Blaine better than any of them.

He certainly knew the right buttons to push, even if they caused him trouble.

Mike had been certain Blaine would do what he normally did—hide. He’d expected Blaine to tend to his roses and stay in his rooms, or in the upper West Wing, in his father’s old office or in the gallery, wallowing in memories and refusing to eat, as he often did when he became particularly depressed. He’d even half-anticipated Kurt’s dismissal, because when Blaine could not hide behind his hood, he hid behind his temper, and he had been using both more than usual since he’d appointed his minstrel.

Instead, Santana had relayed orders for Kurt to start acting as clothier as well. It was the last thing Mike had expected. And when Mike had appeared at Blaine’s rooms just as Santana was going to fetch Kurt from his rooms, he’d found the Prince as he was now—a partially-controlled state of panic.

Mike hadn’t dared to intrude on his lord’s thoughts by inquiring what the hell he thought he was doing  _now_. Maybe Kurt was right…

The door to the chambers boomed with a set of three heavy knocks.

“Enter,” Blaine called.

Santana opened the door and lead through Kurt, who was carrying a bundle of fabric and some supplies.

“Ah, Master Hummel,” Blaine said. Mike raised an eyebrow at the almost snide tone. “You found our stores sufficient?”

“I did not visit them, my lord,” Kurt said, bowing carefully, not raising his eyes to the Prince. “I had some suitable material in my own possession, and if it pleases my lord I would be glad to use it.”

Kurt settled his things down on the small round table that Blaine usually took his breakfast at, moving what Mike saw to be a pencil, a sheaf of parchment, needles, some spools of thread, and a length of straight fabric with notches at every inch off of a bundle of fabric.

Both Mike and the Prince moved closer to view the fabric, but only Blaine touched it. He lifted a corner of the cream-colored material and rubbed his thumb over its smoothness.

“Silk?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“You would willingly give up silk as fine as this?”

“I had no particular plans for it, my lord,” Kurt replied, his tone carefully neutral. Mike had always been impressed with how levelly Kurt could comport himself in an uncertain situation. However, he had a tendency to become acerbic when things turned for the worse, and that Mike was wary of.

“Still, it is high quality. Quite expensive, I would wager. Not something a mere merchant’s son would see often.”

“It was the effort of several months’ savings,” Kurt admitted, “but that only convinces me that it must not go to waste. I am not entirely certain that it would look becoming on me, my lord, but it would match your coloring very well.”

“Well, you know best, don’t you?”

It was said so bitterly that Mike had to fight off a grimace. He eyed the Prince quickly before looking to Kurt’s reaction. Kurt hadn’t bothered to hide his own grimace.

“What, in your  _expert_  opinion, should we do with this material?”

Kurt flushed and Mike could see his eyes hardening against the sneer. Mike shook his head quickly, his pleas silent but desperate. If Kurt spoke back now, there was no telling what the result would be. Thankfully, instead of fighting against Mike, Kurt just nodded and took a deep, steadying breath.

“I have enough fabric for both doublet and breeches, my lord, if you would like,” Kurt said. “I have some soft wool for the lining, and there is certainly enough for full sleeves. And should my lord find it pleasing, I have some silk thread in several colors and can decorate the fabric with some stitching.”

“Certainly,” Blaine replied quickly, tugging at his shirtsleeves in a way that Mike suspected he was fidgeting—it was hard to tell without seeing his face, which was still so expressive despite its…limitations. “I trust you’ll do what you think is best. After all, it is  _your_  job.”

Kurt’s eyes widened and he drew in breath sharply.

Mike waited for the retaliation.

“Of course, my lord,” Kurt said instead, his voice tight and his eyes suspiciously bright. “My best efforts will go into making this satisfactory for you. Might I be allowed to take some measurements?”

Blaine, who had been looking down at the fabric and idly examining it during the majority of the conversation, lifted his head toward Kurt.

“What will you need to measure?”

Mike shifted his attention between the two men. There was enormous potential for awkwardness here. Both men were attracted to their own sex, and Mike knew from experience how close to the body one had to get to measure for a good tailor. He knew Blaine was attracted to Kurt, though he would have been surprised if the feelings were returned at this juncture. And all conjecture of possible desire aside, Kurt would be close enough to possibly peer within Blaine’s hood—it was not a perfect hiding spot, however deep it was. He was risking Kurt seeing him anyway, having called him here when daylight was strongest. Blaine had so far circumvented any risk by keeping his head turned mostly away and keeping his back to the light, but that wouldn’t work if Kurt were too close.

Mike wondered briefly if maybe Blaine  _wanted_  Kurt to see him.

“I will need several measurements around your chest and arms,” Kurt replied, keeping himself neutral once more. It was probably easier without Blaine making ridiculously unsubtle attacks at him. “I will need a few lengths on your legs as well.”

“You will get your measurements at a later time,” Blaine said, and Mike’s suspicions were eased. Blaine had obviously foreseen the difficulties. “If you do not need any of these materials now, you may leave them and we will resume after supper tonight.”

Kurt bowed again as Blaine turned his back, turning and walking out in a manner too fast and agitated to fool Mike.

“You’re an asshole.”

Blaine and Mike both snapped their attention to Santana, who had been quiet the entire time.

“Did you just call me an—“

“—an asshole, yes,” she snapped. “What the hell was that? I thought you wanted him to make you some nice clothes so you stop looking like a vagrant, not so you could bully him.”

“Santana, it’s none of your business.”

“The hell it’s not!” Santana advanced on Blaine, arms crossed. “As chamberlain, Kurt is one of my charges, and I have to make sure this castle runs smoothly, and I can’t  _do_  that if you’re going to go around making the staff even more uncomfortable than just being around you already makes them.”

“So it is true—everyone talking behind my back—“

“Oh, grow up,” she said. “Of course everyone talks about you. You’re the Prince. Everyone will always be talking about you. It’s your choice what they end up discussing.”

“Santana, you’re—“

“And just so we’re clear,” she continued, raising her voice over Blaine’s, “Kurt may have been an idiot in how he went about telling you the truth, but the fact remains that the truth is what he told you. And it’s about time somebody did.”

“Enough!” Blaine roared, throwing back his hood. “I have had  _enough_. Get out.”

“Run away all you want,” Santana sneered as she turned to walk away. “It’s worked out  _so_  well for you so far.”

Mike was impressed at the way the door slammed behind her on the way out. It was a  _heavy_  door.

“And you? Do you agree as well?”

Mike turned to Blaine calmly. Blaine had lost his temper, his face contorted with rage.

“My lord, you and I have already discussed my stance on the matter,” he said, keeping his voice as smooth as possible. “I do not agree with how Kurt and Santana have treated you. They have been disrespectful and tactless. But I agree with their assessment of the situation.”

Blaine laughed, the sound almost frightening in how cold it was.

“So again I am alone in this,” he said, his head thrown back and his arms thrown out in frustration as he paced the room. “I thought you of all people would understand—“

“—and for the past seven years, I have,” Mike said, interrupting his lord. Blaine looked at him in surprise, and Mike met his gaze evenly. He looked to him not as a lord, but a friend, and he hoped Blaine could see his sincerity.

“It’s been a long seven years, Blaine.”


	12. Chapter 11

Supper was a disaster, to say the least.

Blaine had arrived before Wes and David could set the table, so he and Kurt sat in silence, Kurt on his stool and Blaine at the table, waiting for them to finish scrambling about in efforts to put the night back on track. Mike stood stoically by his master’s side, and Kurt noticed a certain… _tension_  between them. He tried to catch Mike’s eye for even a clue as to what had happened since he’d left the Prince’s chambers earlier that day, but Mike kept his eyes resolutely fixed on some spot above Kurt’s head.

Once the Prince actually had his food in front of him, Kurt noticed he didn’t actually eat. He stabbed the food, and cut it, and pushed it around his plate, but Kurt didn’t see him lift the food to his mouth once. And Blaine kept shooting what he felt were annoyed glances in his direction—hard to tell, based on the fact that Kurt had never seen his face and could only base his assumptions on body language and intuition. He tried to keep his playing light and slow—not too happy, though, for he felt that would seem contrary and obnoxious. He improvised much, but he didn’t have his heart in it, so for the most part the playing was mediocre at best.

However, Blaine drank heavily. Mike hadn’t touched the wineskin once—Blaine had refilled his own drink several times now, and Kurt felt the tension in the room rising with every gulp he took.

Finally, Blaine shoved his plate away and sat back, more forcefully than he had previously. It was his universal sign that he was finished. And a few times over the past week, he’d requested something more from Kurt by this point—first a song, then a story. Kurt wondered if the Prince would follow the pattern, and what he could expect next.

“I would request a tale,” Blaine said, and Kurt flinched at his chilly tone, “but I’m not sure that’s wise.”

Kurt continued picking at the lute, biting his lip and keeping his head low. He kept silent.

“Perhaps a song? One… _without_  words, I think.”

Kurt stopped his idle playing and sighed, thinking on what to play.

“Yes, my lord.”

He had never heard himself sound so defeated. After his visit to the Prince earlier, he had gone back to his rooms and berated himself for the majority of the day. He had skipped lunch, and was consequently feeling somewhat lightheaded, and he was depressed at the prospect of serving this man with whom there appeared to be no hope. He had all but resigned himself already to facing Sebastian within the next month.

He started up a plaintive tune, the first thing he could think of that wasn’t a funeral dirge or a love song, either of which would have been inappropriate. Normally, this song  _did_  have words—an old village ditty about keeping a flame alight to guide a lost lover—but Kurt kept his mouth shut.

“Enough,” Blaine said about halfway through the song, waving his hand dismissively. His voice sounded curiously thick, but Kurt wasn’t surprised given the amount of alcohol he had consumed over the past hour. “If I wanted below average twangling I would have Wes or David play.”

Kurt fought the rising boil in his gut. It would do no good to snap back at Blaine now. He could only hold his tongue and hope this sour mood passed. He had hoped to escape this sort of abuse when he left Lima, but it had only been a day, after all. Hopefully Blaine would not sustain his obvious dislike, and the best way to foster that was to remain obedient and demure.

“Well, let us return to my chambers to get you your measurements,” Blaine said suddenly, rising from his seat. “Let not the  _entire_  night be a waste. Mike, take Kurt to my chambers—I will join you there shortly.”

Kurt bowed his head and rose, falling into step beside Mike, who still would not look at him, as he lead the way out.

_Why is everyone avoiding my gaze? Have I truly damaged things this deeply?_

Blaine was drunk.

That was probably the reason he thought it was a good idea to slip through the concealed door and into the darkened nook by the metal spiral staircase that ran up to the King’s office above. He shifted into the corner and leant into the joining of the two walls, holding himself up as best he could with his head swimming.

A moment later Kurt and Mike entered. Blaine remained perfectly still, hoping that the darkness and about twenty feet of distance would keep him concealed as he watched.

“Why is the Prince doing this?”

Mike turned and faced Kurt, shaking his head and sighing.

“What part?”

“All of it,” Kurt said. “I know I overstepped my bounds, and I am sorry, but I thought…I suppose that when Santana told me he planned no action against me, I thought that meant he would drop the matter, or approach it civilly. But I have faced nothing but his ire all day, and I have no idea how to make it better.”

“Give him time,” Mike advised. “Blaine is a good man; a reasonable man. He just…this is a trying time for us all.”

“I just don’t understand why it needs to  _stay_  trying,” Kurt said, his exasperation clear. “Why is he so…so  _afraid_?”

“Kurt, it’s complicated, and it’s not my place to tell you. If the Prince should decide to tell you himself one day, he will.” Blaine nodded in the shadows. Mike was a good friend and servant to keep his secrets—it would have been only too easy to tell Kurt everything.

“I doubt that,” Kurt scoffed. “I’ve lost his trust before I even had it.”

“Well, you did act rather rashly.”

“What else am I supposed to do, Mike?” Kurt paced, keeping an eye on the door. Blaine realized he was making sure Blaine wouldn’t walk in.  _Ha._  “Anything I can do to make him see. Sebastian is the worst thing that can happen to anyone in this castle, not to mention the entire kingdom.”

“You say that like you’ve had personal experience with him.”

Kurt turned to look at Mike, his face draining of color, and Blaine watched closely. What was  _that_  about?

“I have,” Kurt said, “but that’s not the point.”

“What is the point?”

“My point is that something needs to  _happen_!” Kurt burst out. “He just  _sits_  there and lets everything happen  _to_  him instead of making any kind of decision! I mean, even actively stepping down would be better than  _this,_  this—passivity. And as much as it pains me to say, at least Sebastian is a man of  _action_.”

Blaine’s temper abruptly snapped. Kurt understood  _nothing_ , but he stood there like he knew everything and—

“And the maddening part is that he very well might be getting ready to do something. I would be thrilled if he did. But I just wish I knew, so I could stop being terrified of what’s to come. I mean…why would he want this outfit if not to be seen in it?”

Blaine stepped out of the shadows and moved toward the two where they stood. Kurt had his back to him, but Mike saw him, his eyes widening and his mouth drawing into a tight line. Blaine felt himself sobering by the second—no alcohol could quell the rage that was and had always been fuelled by misunderstanding.

Blaine stared at the back of Kurt’s head, his dying inebriation offering him some reluctant honesty.  _If he were less beautiful, less of everything I’d ever dreamed of, would I have taken any of his words so hard?_

“I would like to look my best,” he said, his voice harsh, “when Sebastian comes to kill me. I wouldn’t want to seem ungrateful for his help.”

Kurt spun around, mesmerizing eyes wide with sudden terror.

“Do you think my dear cousin would appreciate the gesture?” he continued. “Maybe he’d even grant me a quick death, what do you think? Since you know him?”

“My lord, that’s not what I meant, I—“

“Perhaps we could send him a message when the garment is ready, so we don’t waste any more time.” Blaine advanced closer. “I wouldn’t want him to go against nature and  _wait around_. Would you like to deliver the message yourself? I’m sure he’d be thrilled to see you.”

Kurt looked abruptly sick, and Blaine paused, his anger cooling after his outburst. He stopped moving, unclenching his fists.

“You’ll excuse me, my lord.”

Kurt sounded like he was choking, but before Blaine or Mike could comment he plucked up a candle and was all but running out the door.

“Kurt did not deserve that.”

Blaine rounded on Mike, but he couldn’t seem to summon the fiery wrath that Kurt had elicited.  _You know what they say about passion and anger…_

Blaine sighed heavily. He was feeling very heavy—weary as though he’d been traveling for days without rest.

“I cannot seem to control myself around him,” he admitted quietly, tired of fighting the truth. “He makes me feel things…so strongly. And after so many years feeling nothing, it is overwhelming.”

Blaine didn’t look at Mike, but the air was awkward, as though Mike had no idea what to reply. Blaine spared him.

“I will be in my office,” he said, heading to the spiral staircase he hid behind not ten minutes prior. “I need…to think.”

And as he walked up the stairs and into the office, settling in the large leather chair that Cooper had favored, he did. Kurt had been swirling in his head since he first heard of the man, his presence growing stronger with each day despite the fact that Blaine had had to resist all his instincts in order to keep the man at a distance. Kurt was like some mysterious god, some seductive specter of divinity that beckoned him to pray, to make pilgrimage and beg for grace. He was so distant to Blaine, so far out of his reach, and so temptingly flesh before him. And Blaine knew the stories of men who dared to love the gods—it never ended well.

 _But Kurt isn’t_ actually  _a god, you dolt._

No, Kurt wasn’t a god, and it was all the more frustrating. Blaine had no idea what to do with the feelings slowly spreading from his heart, his uncontrollable heart, seeping in his bloodstream until they reached every inch of him. He had no clue how to proceed, how to act, how to do  _anything_. Kurt was right—Blaine was not a man of action. As children, Cooper had always been the one to start the games, to take charge, to lead. Blaine, so much younger and so prone to idolizing his older brother, had been only too happy to follow, desperate to please his hero. And when they had grown older, it was clear that Blaine was not nearly as openly charismatic as Cooper. Those close to him loved him fiercely—the loyalty of those who had remained with him was proof of that. But Blaine had never been granted opportunity to learn how to lead. It had been thrust, so unwelcome, upon him, and in his trauma and his fear he had hidden from it.

Blaine wasn’t entirely certain he could force himself to  _be_  that leader. He knew some people saw it in him—they would have run long ago had they not. It was just unlocking that potential and defeating his indecision that was proving difficult.

If only he could learn from Kurt. Kurt was a force. Kurt was fierce and passionate and so, so strong. His character was only strengthened by his previous adversity, not beaten down like Blaine’s. And Blaine hadn’t even seen that much empirical evidence of it—it was just so present in everything Kurt did, everything he was, every move he made. He didn’t have to prove it. It was part of what made Blaine admire him so much.

And then there was Sebastian to contend with. The sword over his head; the noose awaiting his neck. He was a leader, though not of the kind that commanded love—no, people respected Sebastian out of fear. He was ruthless and cruel. Blaine had only met the man a few times as children, and he had always been the one to knock down the other children when he wanted a toy. And from all Blaine had heard, he was still that way, only now his toys were people rather than wooden swords or a leather ball.

_How do he and Kurt know each other?_

Blaine supposed Kurt may have come across Sebastian naturally—Sebastian was lord of Lima, and it was from where Kurt hailed. But Kurt’s reactions whenever Lord Smythe was mentioned told a different story, one that Blaine could not quite figure out. Had Kurt met him in the tavern? Sebastian did go out drinking with his men sometimes, after successful raids. Or had he come across Kurt at a market? Had they spoken?

And a scared, vicious corner of his soul quietly whispered to him,  _How intimately do they know each other?_

Had they been lovers, once? Sebastian took many lovers; it would not be surprising if he had noticed beautiful, luminous Kurt. Sebastian would leap at the opportunity to have someone so precious, so fine. And it would explain Kurt’s reactions to any mention of Sebastian—was he truly a jilted former lover? Blaine burned with jealousy. His mind twisted with images of Kurt writhing beneath Sebastian, their hands all over each other, Sebastian coaxing moans and whimpers from Kurt’s reddened lips, thrusting into him with Kurt’s white legs wrapped around his back, all the while staring at Blaine, daring him to do better, be more of a man…

Blaine felt his stomach turn to acid, and he didn’t know if he felt more desire to know exactly what had occurred between Kurt and Sebastian or to plug his ears and never learn the truth. If Kurt had been a notch on Sebastian’s bed post, Blaine didn’t know if he could handle that, if he could compare—and if he were totally honest with himself, he yearned for the opportunity to compare, to feel Kurt beneath him, to draw out his voice and his heart through the touches of his body—

 _Crash_.

Blaine started, head whipping around. Such a loud noise, from close by. It had sounded like something breaking.

It had come from the next room .

Kurt found himself in the middle of the court after running out, standing directly beneath the wrecked chandelier. He was trembling, nauseous and scared, the movements of his hand flickering the candle alarmingly. He shouldn’t be having this reaction every time someone even mentioned Sebastian’s name—he should be stronger than this. But whenever he was reminded of the Lord of Lima, he could feel the man’s hands groping him and his hot breath seeping down his collar. He heard Sebastian again and again in his head;  _you will continue to allow me to do with you what I like for as long as I wish it._

And he was coming soon. His father couldn’t protect him now. And when he came, and he found Kurt here, already part of the household he was taking over, he would be  _so_  pleased to find Kurt already installed for him.

 _Unless he becomes jealous_ , Kurt thought, sending a fresh wave of sickness through him.  _In which case he’ll either throw you away or find a way to mark you as his own…_

And it was all because of Blaine. Blaine, who would not rule. Who perhaps did not  _want_  to rule, and was too scared or indecisive to just step down. Kurt’s only protection now. A man whom he had offended, and who subsequently had, in his temper, taken what appeared to be every effort to make him miserable.

Kurt looked up, studying what he could of the court in the faint light of the candle. It really could be so beautiful, here. It had been, once.

Something caught his eye when he looked up. The colonnade at the head of the staircases that ran on either side of the room. He remembered his first day here,  _gods, was it only less than a week ago_ , and how he had imagined something moving there—

—had he imagined it? Or had it been Blaine?

Had Blaine been  _watching_  him?

Kurt placed a careful foot on the large steps. The dust was thick—no one had gone up these stairs for a long time.

_Because it’s forbidden._

Well, only the western side, anyway. So it couldn’t hurt to go up and see just what Blaine had seen that first day, assuming it  _had_  been him that Kurt had spied moving around.

He reached the head of the stairs and turned around. Yes, from up here, the entire court was easily viewed, and Blaine would have had a great view of Kurt and Mike entering and walking through. Had he just spent the day in the colonnade, with the dusty paintings and half-cracked statues of the gallery, looming in darkness and waiting for his new minstrel to arrive?

Kurt looked around a bit. There were large doors on either end of the hallway, much like the one below. The one on the eastern side was closed, but he noticed the western one opened just a crack.

 _Damn it all_.

Kurt moved forward, his curiosity overcoming his wariness of the rules the Prince had set down. It didn’t help that Kurt felt like doing Blaine no favors after his treatment over the past twenty-four hours.

He moved through the door, slipping in without disturbing it too much. The dust on the floor here was disturbed in many places. Kurt looked around in the faint candlelight, holding it up by the little brass handle on the side of the holder. He appeared to be in a library, shelves and shelves of books rotting away beneath years of grime.

He paced about the room, noting the windows that looked down on the castle entrance below— _so Blaine saw when I was coming_. The room had a damp, musty smell, and Kurt found it unpleasant, especially given his love of stories and reading; it felt like a ruined temple to him, desecrated and sacrilegious.

He came upon another door, just to the right of the one he came through, and throwing caution to the wind, he pulled it open. He was faced with another colonnade looking down on the court. Instead of being open but for a low railing, like in the upper gallery, there was open latticework. One would be able to move around up here without much notice from below, shielded by the thick, ornate wood carved in decorated circles and chevrons. Peering across the court, Kurt could not see the eastern side, so he did not know if there was a matching wall, but he was certain there was at least the appearance of one. It was probably that only the king—and this was the king’s wing of the castle, Kurt now knew—that was allowed a secret way to look down on his court.

He walked down the hallway, careful to step lightly. The dust was run down here, as though it was walked on often, so he didn’t fear leaving footprints, but he was wearing his boots, and they were heavy enough to make noise should he be careless. About halfway down, he came to a door.

Kurt faced it, the candlelight flickering. He was almost out of candle—he’d have to be quick, or find a replacement soon, or he’d be walking through the castle in the dark.

 _Do I go in_ , Kurt asked himself,  _and defy my orders, and risk the Prince finding out and punishing me further? Or do I leave now?_

Kurt thought back to the last day, and of what was to come. Blaine wasn’t going to be around much longer, by the looks of things—so who cared if he was angered? Maybe if Blaine was angry enough, he’d send Kurt home and Kurt would have his father’s protection again.

_Or maybe he’ll have you punished…_

He opened the door.

He found himself in a long room, all marble floors and walls. It was a gallery, full of paintings and sculptures. Most of the sculptures were knocked over, a few of them broken here and there. However, most of the pictures seemed untouched. Kurt looked at the nearest one and gasped.

It was the old King.

He had never seen him in person, but he had seen paintings of the man before. He was an intimidating man, and Cooper had looked a bit like him, though much friendlier in demeanor. The man in the picture before him was cold and stern. Kurt shivered and moved on.

He found paintings of the queen, an exotic beauty with dense ringlets of ebony hair and large golden eyes, and what were probably other family members around the room, given their resemblance to the king. He didn’t pause at them for too long, very much aware of how little time he had left. But he was curious— _why_ was he forbidden from coming up here? What was Blaine hiding with a bunch of paintings and half-ruined sculptures?

He reached the end of the room and looked up. A large portrait of Cooper, his head and shoulders, just to the left of the center of the wall. It was huge, and Kurt smiled up at it. Cooper really had been so handsome, and he looked, in the portrait, only too happy to pose and be admired. He had so loved the adoration of the people, and the people had been so willing to give it to him.

But to the right of center there was a bare patch of wall. A frame was below where it was obviously supposed to be hung, toppled on its side where it rested against the wall. There was a painting in it, but a large chunk was torn, just across the face of whoever was in the portrait. The ripped piece hung over the edge of the frame, still attached by a few inches at the bottom, flopped over so Kurt could only see the back.

He carefully reached forward and lifted the canvas. In it was a young man posed identically to Cooper in his portrait, but reversed, his body angled to the left. He was devastatingly handsome—different from Cooper, but no less stunning. The resemblance to the portrait of the queen was uncanny. Black hair, tanned skin, and large, golden eyes, almost yellow on the canvas. This boy’s eyes were magnetic, and Kurt found himself unable to look away.

Was this… _Blaine?_

Kurt righted the frame and smoothed up the canvas, propping it up and temporarily mending it so that he could step back and view it as a whole. He stood and walked backwards, staring into the lively amber eyes that pierced him even as only paint—

—and he backed right into something heavy.

He turned and watched as a vase fell off a heavy sculpted column that had been used as a base. The vase shattered with a wild smash, the cacophony reverberating painfully off the wide marble walls.

Kurt jumped, instantly turning to look for a way out. He was certain that if anyone were to check on him, they would come through the door he had, and he could certainly be caught—

It was too late.

The door slammed open, revealing Blaine standing before him, holding up a glass oil lamp burning brightly. Kurt froze, his breath stolen from his body.

“What are you doing here?”

Kurt shook his head, opening his mouth to try to explain, but nothing came out. There was nothing that  _could_  come out—he’d been caught doing exactly what he had been asked not to do.

“I doubt you’re lost,” Blaine snarled, stepping into the room slowly and setting his lamp down on the ground. Kurt was shaking—even as angry as he had already seen Blaine, it was nothing compared to how he sounded now. “Why. Are. You. Here.”

“My lord, I—I—“

“You were expressly forbid from coming here,” he shouted, and Kurt flinched, backing up as Blaine stepped forward. Kurt hadn’t been so afraid in his entire life. “And you did anyway. I want an explanation!”

“I’m sorry my lord!” Kurt cried, falling back. He stopped when he felt something on his heels.

The portrait.

Blaine’s head turned, and Kurt realized what he was looking at.

“My lord—“

“And what do you think?” Blaine asked, his voice cold. “I was once told I was a handsome boy. Is it true?”

Kurt kept his mouth shut. There was no answer he could safely give.

“Answer me!”

“Yes, my lord,” Kurt blurted out, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps.

“Yes!” Blaine yelled. He stepped forward, lashing out and knocking over the column that Kurt had knocked into. The noise pierced Kurt’s ears, but not as much as Blaine’s voice. “Very handsome. Not quite as handsome as my brother, but then no one ever was. And wouldn’t they just  _love_  to compare us now!”

“My lord—“

“Go ahead!” Blaine roared, stepping close to Kurt and throwing back his hood. He grabbed Kurt’s wrist violently, lifting the hand that held the candle, throwing his face into sharp contrast. “ _What am I now!?”_

Kurt cried out and dropped the candle, wrenching his wrist away and cringing at the shooting pain running up his arm. He cradled it close to him, shaking in pain.

Blaine was no longer the sweet-faced young man in the portrait. That much he had seen, though he had dropped the light too quickly to make out details. He had made out a patchy beard, uneven skin, and what had truly terrified him—golden eyes that were filled with the coldest rage.

Kurt did what every instinct begged him to do.

He ran. 

Blaine stood very still in the middle of the gallery, the shadows cast by the oil lamp dancing on the walls, mimicking the flames inside him licking at his heart, whispering terrible things from deep within.

_He’s seen you now he’ll never love you he’s far too good for you you’ve shown him your face he knows you’re a monster you’ll never see him again he shouldn’t have to look on your hideousness what would your father say now—_

“Blaine?”

_—looks like it was the right choice to hide away no one would ever want to see a face like yours you’ve always been so worthless he told you so always the lesser son always smaller stupider weaker uglier stranger quieter less loved less seen less less less less—_

“Blaine.”

_—and now Kurt’s seen the real you are you happy now you’ve scared him away you don’t deserve him you don’t deserve anything but what should’ve happened to you seven years ago you deserve what Cooper got instead you worthless spineless piece of shit you never had the courage did you—_

“Blaine!”

He was being shaken, shaken from the fiery grasp of his demons. He blinked away the darkness to see Mike standing in front of him, hands on his shoulders, literally shaking him out of his daze.

“Blaine, what happened? Why did Kurt leave?”

“Leave?” Blaine repeated dazedly. Then he laughed.

Mike stared at him. “Blaine. What the hell happened in here? Why is your hood down?”

 “Kurt saw me,” Blaine babbled. “He saw me, he saw my picture. I should have burned it. He never should have seen it, and I lost my temper and now he knows what I really am, he knows—“

“I did that for your own good,” Mike spat, stepping back. Blaine clutched his cheek, eyes watering with the sting. “Did you hurt him?”

Blaine huffed, shaking his head.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I grabbed him, but—“

“Gods, Blaine.”

“He saw me and he ran,” Blaine whispered. “He saw me before and he saw me now and he ran.”

Saying it out loud made it real. Tears welled up and fell, uncontrolled and uncontrollable.

“I’m sorry, Blaine,” Mike said, “I really am. I know how hard that must be for you. But we don’t have time for this right now. Kurt just  _left_.”

Blaine snapped to attention.

“Left? Left the  _castle_?”

“Yes! I was tracking him down and he just blew past me out in the corridor. By the time I reached the court he was already out the front. Santana went after him but it’s too dangerous, she’s not armed.”

“Where’s my sword?”

“In your office.”

Blaine brushed past Mike, running as fast as he could out the door and down the hall. He flew through the open door and snatched up his sword belt, slinging it around his waist and buckling it on as he ran back down the corridor. Mike met him halfway and turned with him, one hand on the knife he kept at his hip.

“Where would Kurt have gone?”

Mike shook his head.

“Normally I’d say he’s too smart to go far, but I have no idea how upset he is. If he stayed within the castle walls he’d probably be safe, but if he’s scared enough to run out without a cloak or a torch—“

“We’ll catch him.”

They ran out the front doors and immediately headed down the main path toward the gate. There was a gibbous moon above, its light just strong enough to warp their surroundings rather than truly illuminating them. Blaine focused on the path a few feet ahead of himself, keeping an eye for debris. The last thing he needed was to trip.

“Look.”

Blaine looked ahead and saw what Mike was seeing. Torchlight, heading toward them.

“It’s Santana,” Mike huffed, trying to breathe evenly as he ran. Blaine sympathized—his own chest was burning for air. He hadn’t run in far too long. “She’s the only sensible one among us, bringing out a torch.”

They ran up to her, both hoping that she had Kurt, but they found her alone, jogging toward them.

“Where—“

“He went out the gate,” she said, breathing heavily as she halted before them. “That little fucker is  _fast_.”

“Did you get near him, did he say anything—“

“No,” she sighed, holding out the torch. Blaine took it. “He was ahead of me, I couldn’t manage to catch him. What the  _hell_ —“

“Mike, take Santana back to the castle,” Blaine said, command strong in his voice. He missed the look of surprise on his servants’ faces. “She shouldn’t be out here alone. I’ll go after Kurt.”

“But Blaine—“

“It’s my fault he’s out here, I’ll get—“

He froze, cut off by a keening bay cutting through the clear night air.

It was the howl of a wolf.

Blaine broke into a run.


	13. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of warnings for this chapter: animal death, PTSD breakdown (but it’s not explicit, it simply involves a flashback), semi-graphic descriptions of injuries/blood, descriptions of minor character death

Kurt didn’t pause. He didn’t stop. He heard his name but he couldn’t slow down. He simply ran.

The only thought going through his head was that he had to get home, no matter the cost.

On foot, at a steady pace, Lima was about six hours from Dalton castle. If Kurt could just keep going, pace himself, he’d be there in the early hours of the morning. If he didn’t trip and fall, or injure himself, or run into highwaymen, or—

—or a wolf.

He’d stopped running just outside Dalton’s gates, when the trees overhead had filtered the moon, the leaves causing the light to dapple and shift on the path, making his road unclear and even more dangerous. He wished he’d grabbed a torch, for light and for warmth, as he’d left his cloak as well, but it was too late to go back now.

He felt trapped. Blaine behind him, Sebastian ahead.  _At least the month isn’t up yet,_  the little voice in his head reminded him.  _Sebastian will forgive you if you go to him before the end of the month, just like he said. Or you could just wait to see what he does to you…_

Maybe he’d send Finn to collect his things from Dalton and set out for himself. He’d done well enough for the Prince. He didn’t know everything about the life of a travelling bard, but he could improvise. Having played for the Prince, he could afford himself a certain level of prestige. And he could tell stories,  _new_  stories, tell everyone what it was really like at the castle. He didn’t  _have_  to return to Dalton for either its current ruler or the one in its apparent future. He could leave everything behind and just  _go._  His father would understand, would  _help_ him.

Kurt was about halfway down the half-mile path from the castle to the main road when he heard the howl.

It was close. Too close.

He stopped in the middle of the path, eyes staring wide into the darkness, trying to make out movement. He knew well that wolves didn’t attack people unprovoked, unless one were to either endanger the pups or get in the way of a hunt, and wolves weren’t stupid enough to roam near a path that stank of humans. If he could just stay still, or turn around and go back calmly, the wolves would have no cause to attack—

The howl went up again—a solitary wail, loud enough that Kurt could feel it in his  _teeth_.

 _You know another way wolves attack_ , he thought,  _is a lone wolf desperate for food._

He turned and started slowly walking back toward Dalton. He had been rash, so rash and childish and he had panicked. Blaine had hurt him—his wrist ached, and he was certain there were already bruises—but he wouldn’t have  _harmed_  him, not deliberately. He’d been angry, so angry, and he had terrified Kurt, but he would never have been allowed to truly hurt Kurt, not with Mike lurking around at all times.

 _How could you have been so stupid_?

The sounds of the forest were always unnerving—rustling, chittering, cries that came from nowhere. Kurt wasn’t used to them, and every sound made him flinch as he tried to calmly make his way back up the path. It wasn’t far, it would only take a few minutes, he had no reason to believe he wouldn’t make it back.

Just ahead, he heard a low growl. He looked up, his feet freezing to the ground while every inch of him screamed at him to run or shout or curl up into a ball, none of which he could make his body do. Instead, he stared with cold terror into a patch of moonlight falling onto grey and black fur around yellow eyes and white, white teeth. 

 

 

Blaine ran through the woods, dodging tree trunks and branches and holding his torch high, lighting his way ahead. He was quick, but he could only hope he was quicker than Kurt.

What on earth had Kurt been thinking? Blaine knew he had been out of line—he had lost his temper, he had scared Kurt—but what sane person would risk the woods at night?

_Someone who has nothing left to lose._

And just as Blaine realized that the same sentiment applied to himself, he heard a scream from up ahead.

 

 

 _Pain_.

Kurt fell, his back slamming painfully into the ground as he toppled over, carried by the weight of the wolf, lunging at him with snapping jaws. Stones dug into him, dirt smeared over his entire body, and all he could smell was a musty animal stench. He writhed instinctively, trying to throw off the animal with both arms and legs, twisting his torso around to escape anything that could injure him. But within moments, the wolf would have him—it would kill him.

But as suddenly as the wolf had leapt, as suddenly as Kurt had screamed and lost all sense of anything but his own impending demise, the weight on his chest was gone with a thud and a sharp whine filled the air.

“Are you okay? Kurt?”

Kurt looked up. Blaine was above him, sword in hand, hood back. The moonlight reflected off of his dark, curly hair, and Kurt found himself mesmerized by it.

“Kurt! Are you injured?”

Blaine was kneeling now, and Kurt blinked. He didn’t feel any injuries—his back hurt from the fall, but otherwise he seemed fine.

“Where’s the—the wolf?”

Blaine sighed in relief and stood.

“I kicked him off. Let’s get going before—“

In a flurry of snarling, Blaine was suddenly pinned beneath the wolf, his right arm caught between its teeth, sharp claws scrabbling viciously at the Prince’s side. Blaine cried out, struggling against the wolf, grasping the back of the beast’s neck with his free hand. Kurt scrambled to his feet and panicked— _what the hell could he do?_

His mind started to work overtime, and everything seemed to slow down. The wolf was dirty and matted, and strangely small, not like the wolves Kurt had seen in paintings and heard about in the stories. It was probably only attacking out of desperation, so it should be easy to fend off. If only he had a  _weapon_ —

And then he remembered what Blaine had done for him.

He pitched forward, ignoring the part of him that panicked and told him to run away. He drew up, lifted his leg, and kicked the beast in the side. He heard a sickening  _crunch_  and the wolf whimpered, its grip on Blaine’s arm dropping as it stumbled aside.

In an instant, Blaine was up, sword arm swinging back. He jabbed down, stabbing the creature’s chest, just below the throat. It made a terrible noise and collapsed, paws scrabbling weakly in the dirt.

Kurt covered his mouth and held back his tears. He couldn’t help but feel pity for the poor thing and its pain. He stepped forward, determined to beg Blaine to end its misery, but Blaine was already leaning down, sword carefully aimed at its ribs. He slipped the sword in almost gently, and with a choking noise, the wolf stiffened all at once before collapsing, its movements ceasing.

Blaine straightened, his sword left standing out of the wolf’s side. He walked backwards a few paces, tripping and almost falling over a branch.

“Blaine?”

Kurt moved forward. There was something wrong with the Prince.

“Blaine?

 

 

_“Blaine!”_

_Blaine peered ahead through the gloom. The light was dying fast—the sun would set soon and the woods would turn much more dangerous._

_“Come on, squirt! I know you can be quieter than that.”_

_Cooper was bounding through the woods like he was born there, feet light as he darted from tree to tree. Blaine followed behind as closely as he could, but he wasn’t nearly as practiced at this as Cooper, who had several years’ experience on him._

_“I’m trying, Coop,” Blaine said, gripping his bow tighter, tiptoeing up behind his brother. He shifted his shoulders, a little uncomfortable—his shirt was feeling tight. He’d have to have some new ones made after this last growth spurt. “Shouldn’t we wait for the others, though? They fell behind ages ago, I don’t even know where we are—“_

_Cooper tensed suddenly, finger flying to his lips in a plea for silence. He motioned at Blaine with his fingers, his eyes fixed ahead. Blaine peered carefully around him._

_A great buck stood between a few trees about thirty feet away. Blaine counted its points—eighteen total. A rare beast, and he knew Cooper wanted it for his prize as his elder brother drew his own bow and nocked an arrow._

_They both raised their bows and took aim, but before they could shoot there was a shift in the wind. It had been blowing across them, keeping their scent away from the buck, but in that shift they were suddenly upwind. The buck raised its head, sniffing, and bolted._

_“Damnit!” Cooper cursed, immediately bounding away._

_“Coop, stop!”_

_“We can catch him!” Cooper called, ghosting away through the trees at an alarming speed. Blaine pursued, struggling to keep up._

_“Cooper, we can’t catch him!”_

_But Cooper wouldn’t listen. Blaine continued to follow after him, much harder to accomplish with the light almost completely gone, the world all turned to hues of blue and grey as the last vestiges of day clung to the sky._

_He couldn’t keep up. One minute he had his eyes locked on his brother’s fleeting form, and the next he was alone, tumbling down into a hollow after tripping over a tree trunk he’d tried to navigate unsuccessfully. He sat up painfully, his body aching with the fall, and his eyes fell on an opening in the high wall of the bank he’d tumbled down. It was strangely even, as though it had been dug out. And then Blaine’s mind caught up with his eyes, and he realized what he was looking at._

_A wolf den._

_And there was a wolf, a large wolf, its hackles raised and its teeth bared, growling and snarling at him. A strangely calm part of Blaine’s mind broke through the freezing dread and noted that there were probably wolf pups within, and he had just flown into the wolves’ home with startling noise and movement and smells, and the wolf would certainly be on edge and ready to defend her young. All he had to do was back away slowly, eyes down, posture non-threatening, and then he could turn and run away—_

_“Blaine!”_

_Several things happened in quick succession. Cooper appeared above Blaine on the bank, just visible in the darkness. Blaine, afraid and cowardly, jumped and crashed to the ground, panicking. And the wolf, driven to extremes by the proximity of a threat to her young and the stench of fear in the air, attacked._

_Blaine, at level with the wolf, felt only pain. The wolf’s teeth and claws dug into his face, neck, and chest, and every sense was obliterated by the agony. He screamed, unable to move, too frozen to fight back. He felt himself slipping, curiously removed from everything, as though his body and mind had separated as he predicted his own death._

I’m dying, _he thought._ I thought it would be different.

 _It was because of this altered mindset that he was able to process the wolf no longer attacking him. He heard several strange noises. He heard the wolf growling over him, and then a_ thwack _, and then more growling and a piercing scream followed by some heavy thuds and a whimper._

_Blaine came back to himself a bit, aware of the pain over his body, the wetness of the blood and the slight chill that came with its loss and the shock of severe injury. He opened his eyes, the right swollen enough that he had trouble with it. His vision was blurry and stung with sweat and blood and tears, but he could make out the shape of tree leaves above him, dappling the stars of the night sky._

_He heard a whisper next to him, a soft call of his name, and he turned._

_Just in his periphery was the still form of the wolf, shaggy and breathing heavily, twitching and whining. He found himself lost in studying what he could see, wondering how deep the arrow in its side went, what it had hit, and how it had ended up unable to move but for breathing and shuddering._

_“Blaine.”_

_Blaine finally looked over to the source of the sound, and saw Cooper laying parallel to him. Their heads were turned to face each other, and Cooper’s hand was reaching out, bloody and weak. Blaine reached his own hand out, their fingertips brushing over the dirt in which they lay._

_“Coop.”_

_“I…Blaine…you—“_

_Cooper blinked slowly, his face tense and pale, and Blaine realized then that Cooper had been clutching his leg with his free hand. There was a huge chunk missing from his thigh, and the wound was bleeding at an alarming rate, pooling beneath his body and soaking everything around._

_“Cooper.”_

_Blaine looked back up at his brother’s face, but it was lax, his eyes shut and his mouth open._

_“Coop.”_

_There were shouts, screams. Clanging of metal, beat of hooves. Rustle of movement. Thud of boots. Hands, grasping him. Some rough material pressing over his wounds._

_“There was a wolf,” he slurred, pain overtaking him as he was touched and moved, the shock wearing off and darkness swiftly overcoming him. “I fell and scared it and it attacked me and Coop—“_

_“Shh, Blaine,” said a familiar voice, and Kurt’s face was above him. “You’re safe.”_

_…Kurt’s face?_

“—he was gone, he bled out, he died to save me and I could have—“

Hands were grasping him again, and he was babbling, just like before, but instead of Mike above him, it was Kurt, intruding on his flashback.

“Blaine, it’s Kurt,” Kurt was saying, hands and voice soothing him. “You’re okay. The wolf didn’t get you this time, you’re safe.”

Blaine took several deep breaths, his head swimming as he came back to himself. He hadn’t had an episode like that in  _years_ , and never outside of nightmares…

“My apologies,” he croaked, his voice hoarse. “I…forgot myself.”

“This is truly how Prince Cooper died?” Kurt asked, and Blaine noticed tears in his eyes. He nodded.

“The wolf was a mother—the cubs hadn’t even opened their eyes,” he said, and he felt the tears on his own face. “She died—Cooper had hit her hard with the arrow, and even after she bit him, he beat her with the bow. She was just defending her cubs. If I had been paying more attention, or if I had just stayed calm, she wouldn’t have attacked. Wolves don’t attack like that.”

“What about that one?” Kurt asked, nodding toward the lump a few feet away, his hands shaking where they lay on Blaine’s shoulders.

“Desperate,” Blaine said. “It’s only just spring. Food has probably been scarce. Wolves don’t hunt humans. You were…an opportunity, I suppose.”

Kurt nodded, silent, as though this weren’t news to him. Blaine looked up at him, his face streaked with grime and tears.

“Are you at all injured?” he asked, increasingly aware of the pain blooming across his own body.

Kurt looked at him wide-eyed, as though startled to be asked.

 _Gods,_  Blaine thought,  _I treated him so badly that he imagines me impartial. Or worse…_

“No, I’m not injured,” Kurt replied. He looked over Blaine, his breath hitching. “But you are.”

Blaine looked down at himself, concentrating on keeping his breathing even. His arm was bleeding a bit, though not nearly as much as he’d expected—the jaws of a wolf were notoriously strong, though Blaine supposed if the wolf was hungry enough to attack humans it would be terribly weak. But its claws had done a number on his side—he could feel the seeping of the blood, and he suddenly felt very faint.

“Blaine, stay with me,” Kurt said, supporting Blaine with two strong hands on Blaine’s shoulders. “We have to get you back to the castle.”

“Probably not going to make a difference,” Blaine whispered, trembling, feeling weaker by the moment. “I don’t think…there’s anything to help me.”

“I have supplies,” Kurt said, “but you need to stand and come with me. Can you make it back?”

Blaine stood, relying on Kurt’s steadying hands to keep him balanced. His head swam and his vision dotted with black, but he fought down the nausea and dizziness and nodded at Kurt.

“I…I need—“

He took a deep breath, ashamed of his fragility.

Kurt stepped forward silently, unbuckling his belt and undoing his vest. Blaine stared, uncomprehending, as he removed it and replaced his belt around the light tunic he wore, shivering. He balled up the fine garment and stepped forward, pressing it to Blaine’s injured side and pushing Blaine’s own hand to hold it.

“I can hold you up,” Kurt said softly, slipping an arm around Blaine’s waist and helping him to hold the velvet to his side, drawing Blaine’s uninjured arm around his shoulders and taking most of his weight. “Just stay awake and keep walking—I’ll keep you upright.”

“I don’t understand,” Blaine said as they started forward, determinedly keeping his eyes on the ground ahead of them.

“What don’t you understand?”

“Why you are helping me. I’ve frightened you—I am…I have been nothing but unkind to you.”

He felt Kurt take a deep breath, his broad shoulders expanding.

“You do not deserve to die for it, Blaine,” he replied softly, sadly. “And I am not blameless either. I should not have disrespected or questioned you.”

“You had every right,” Blaine countered, eyeing the gate to the castle up ahead. “Your safety, and the safety of your family and friends relies on me, and I am failing you. 

Kurt quickly shushed him, sensing his distress, but Blaine felt obligated to explain before they reached their destination and the reality of the world came crashing back down. Between blood loss, adrenaline, and the eerie otherworldliness of the moonlit night, he felt he could explain, as though there were no consequences. And somebody  _needed_  to know.

“Stop,” he commanded weakly, planting himself as firmly as he could just outside the looming gatehouse, whose iron gates had been rusted open for years, though so few had taken advantage of the implicit invitation. He drew back from Kurt, fighting to keep himself upright.

“Kurt, I was never meant to rule,” he said, trying and failing to meet Kurt’s eyes. He instead stared at Kurt’s lips, which were slightly parted. “I never knew how, I wasn’t raised for it. I was raised to expect nothing—to either roam about court as a useless fop or to retire out into a country estate until my brother summoned me. I have no—“

“Shh, Blaine,” Kurt whispered. “You’re exhausted, and you’re injured—there’s not need to explain this now. If you still wish to talk after I’ve treated your injures, I’ll listen.”

He drew Blaine’s arm back around his shoulders and continued on, heading toward the torchlight waiting at the castle entrance.


	14. Chapter 13

They stumbled to the castle, Kurt doing his best to hold Blaine up, who was weakening fast. Kurt couldn’t tell if it was from loss of blood, as Blaine kept his vest pressed tightly to the wound on his side, or simple exhaustion.

“Blaine! Kurt!”

Mike was running forward, torch in hand. Kurt held up a hand to stop him.

“In my room,” he said, “go into my cabinet. There is a large green pouch. Inside are some medical supplies Carole gave me. Fetch it and bring it to the Prince’s chambers so I can tend his wounds.”

“You tend wounds as well,” Blaine said, stumbling a bit. “Where do your talents cease.”

Kurt ignored him, judging him to be out of his mind with strain and injury, instead staring at Mike where he stood in shock.

“Mike,” he said, and Mike appeared to snap out of it.

“Hurry." 

Blaine hissed.

“Ow.”

“Hold still and drink your potion.”

Kurt knelt next to Blaine, who sat in his high, wing-backed chair in front of the fireplace in his chambers, his right elbow rested on his knee while Kurt helped hold his forearm steady. He held Blaine’s arm more firmly, gripping his wrist and holding the arm taut as he dabbed at the bite with a wet cloth, dipping it into a bowl of warm water and herbs. Blaine sighed and grabbed the cup Kurt had prepared as soon as Mike had dropped off the supplies, grimacing at the bitter taste.

“Two of these marks will need stitches,” Kurt said, wringing water and a certain amount of blood out of the cloth into a second bowl before laying it back in the herb water. “The bite wasn’t too deep, thankfully.”

Blaine nodded, his eyes bloodshot and heavy. Kurt’s heart ached as he pulled up the threaded needle, running it through the flame of the candle set aside for this very purpose.

“Keep as still as you can,” Kurt instructed, readjusting his grip on Blaine’s wrist. “This will hurt very much.”

Blaine gritted his teeth and stifled a cry as Kurt pierced the skin on the first deep wound, quickly slipping the needle through the skin on the other side and drawing it tight, tying off the stitch as quickly as possible and breaking the thread. He repeated the process once more, laying aside the needle and checking the stitches. All was done within a few minutes.

“I just need to put some of this on the wound, and then I’ll look at your side,” he said quietly, pulling a little clay jar off the table and dipping his fingers in, warming the smooth substance on his fingers before dabbing it on the wound.

“What is that?”

“Just a salve,” Kurt replied. “It’s got some yarrow in it, which will help stop the bleeding, and a touch of boxthorn so you won’t get infected. If the wound is doing well tomorrow I’ll apply some comfrey to speed the healing process.”

Kurt continued to gently apply the ointment, peeking up at Blaine’s face every time he thought he could get away with it. Seeing Blaine’s face now, Kurt couldn’t manage to keep himself from looking at it. He hadn’t been able to make out much earlier that night, when Blaine had, in his rage, thrown back his hood. But now, in firelight and calmer atmosphere, he found that he wasn’t the least bit afraid or deterred by Blaine’s appearance, as Blaine had so obviously expected.

It was natural that Kurt looked at the scars first. They were prominent—pale ridges running diagonally from around Blaine’s right eye down to the left. Five long, parallel scratches, the longest of which started on Blaine’s eyebrow and, fortunately, appeared to have missed his eye, instead slashing down his cheek, over a bit of nose, and through the right edge of his lips. Three others were similar, two across his right cheek and jaw, the inner of which touched the edge of his mouth, and one across his nose and down his left cheek to his jaw. They all cut through his thick, unruly beard, leaving strange pathways through the hair. The fifth scar was a small line just off the edge of his left eye, running down like a teardrop and stopping short.

But then, as he wiped his hands on another cloth, removing traces of the salve, he started to notice what was  _beneath_  the scars. Blaine’s face was…entirely pleasing, if Kurt was honest with himself. He had handsome features—jaw, chin, nose, and brow were all strong and attractive to Kurt. His mouth was wide and plump. The portrait had shown a handsome youth, but Blaine had obviously grown even more into his looks and was truly striking. Kurt felt himself particularly drawn to his eyes, and he decided the portrait did not do justice. They were clearest amber, large and expressive, rimmed by long, black lashes that only served to draw out the color in their stark contrast. He was pale—he probably hadn’t seen the sun directly in a long time, and he had just lost some blood—enough for it to be startling against his black curls.

Blaine’s eyes fluttered and stared right into Kurt’s. Kurt stared at him for a moment before he realized what he was doing and dropped his gaze, taking in Blaine’s ruined shirt, the white stained with red. He scooted forward a bit on his knees and looked up at Blaine again, finding the Prince still staring back at him.

“I need to remove your shirt,” Kurt whispered. He cleared his throat and continued in a less embarrassing tone, “I will need to rip it. Can you stay very still, so I don’t harm you?”

Blaine nodded again, his breathing slow and heavy. The drink he’d mixed him was working, designed to relax him and make his pain less. He’d mixed some strong spirits with tinctures of passionflower and fennel, kindly fetched by Mike from the kit Carole had packed for him. He silently thanked his stepmother for her foresight and preparation as he eyed the Prince, who seemed much calmer than when they entered.

It would help, Kurt thought, as he reached for the shirt at Blaine’s injured side. He decided not to risk a knife when they were both tired and unsteady, but the wolf had ripped the shirt thoroughly enough for Kurt to be able to continue the gashes until the shirt could be safely removed. He nudged Blaine’s arms to the side and gripped two sides of the biggest tear, grasping the material as well as he could before quickly pulling it apart. It was difficult to shred, being soaked with blood, but Kurt managed it, pulling the tatters from around Blaine’s neck and back, and slipping the rest off with the remaining sleeve, leaving Blaine shirtless before him.

Kurt sat back on his heels, carefully tilting Blaine in his chair with gentle hands, bringing his injured side closer to the edge of the seat. The gashes weren’t nearly as bad as he’d expected from the amount of blood—six or seven cuts, most of them already clotted over, swollen and angry, yes, but not nearly as deep or dire as they could have been. Blaine was lucky, and Kurt felt comfortable leaning back and taking his time in preparing the cloth for more cleanup.

As he did so, Kurt fought desperately to keep from doing something mortifying, like moaning. Blaine’s face wasn’t the only thing that was pleasing. He knew from seeing Blaine in action that he must practice the sword, but he was now seeing the results bare before him. Blaine was well muscled, lean and cut in a way that the laborers of Lima were not, being built for speed and endurance rather than strength. He was hirsute, expected if Kurt based his assumption off the wiry beard on his face, the dark hair dusting over his chest and stomach, thickening as it trailed downward. Several more scars slashed across Blaine’s neck and chest, one particularly large gash trailing across his pectorals and a rough circle of tissue and skin in a knot on the side of his throat. Kurt had an inappropriate urge to trace them, to see what they felt like.

He tried to ignore just how close to Blaine he was as he carefully cleaned the wounds, but it was difficult. He was very much aware of everything about Blaine in that moment—the warmth of his body, the scent of sweat and earth and  _man_  beneath the blood, the tightness of his muscles under the skin where Kurt grasped his side to hold him still with his free hand. It was certainly a confirmation of his attraction to his own sex.

“How bad is it?”

Blaine’s voice, slightly slurred with exhaustion and pain, startled Kurt. He jumped, unintentionally tightening his hand where it gripped Blaine’s side. Blaine hissed in a breath, and Kurt had no trouble convincing himself it was from pain.

“The good news is that you won’t have anything nearly as impressive as those,” Kurt said, nodding toward the scars on Blaine’s chest and berating himself for the blush that rose to his cheeks again. Damned fair skin. “They bled, but they don’t require stitches. Though you won’t be able to do any heavy practice with the sword until the swelling goes down and they’ve healed a little.”

Blaine simply nodded once more, his breathing heavy, a sheen of fresh sweat lingering on his skin.

“I’m almost done cleaning it,” Kurt said soothingly, dabbing away some blood that had dried stubbornly to Blaine’s skin. “When I’m done with that, I’ll put on some of the salve and wrap you up and then you can go to bed.”

“You as well,” Blaine said, and Kurt froze, a curious swooping sensation flying through his stomach. Was Blaine seriously suggesting—

“Mike said he was leaving you some hot water in your room, didn’t he?” Blaine continued. “You should return before it gets cold.”

Kurt released a breath, feeling shaky as he laid aside the cloth and picked up the jar again.  _No, Blaine hadn’t been suggesting anything, you moron. Why on earth would he?_

“Just hold still and this will be over quickly, then,” he said, smoothing the ointment over Blaine’s side. He jumped, and Kurt looked up at him sternly.

“I said—“

“—I know what you said, but it still hurts damnably,” Blaine snapped back. “And it tickles.”

Kurt snorted out a laugh before he could help it.

“What?”

Kurt controlled himself, but his voice was tight with restrained laughter as he said, “It is simply ironic, my lord.”

Blaine raised an eyebrow at him, and Kurt felt slightly cold. Should he just be honest, and risk Blaine’s further ire? He’d already done so much to anger him in one day…

“What do you mean?” Blaine asked, when Kurt said nothing.

“I mean that you, valiant warrior, have survived not one, but  _two_  wolf attacks, and you find it unbearable that I  _tickled you_ ,” Kurt replied quickly, wishing to get it out as quickly as possible.

To his utter surprise, Blaine laughed. It reminded Kurt that the first time he’d met him, the Prince had been perfectly amenable to teasing, and this calmed Kurt.

“That does sound ridiculous,” he said. “But the fact remains that I’m not sure I can stand much more of that.”

Kurt smiled shyly up at him, considering.

“Perhaps my lord would allow me to distract him?”

Blaine looked down at him, his face stony, and Kurt realized what that sounded like.

“I meant that I could sing something,” he quickly amended, cursing himself internally. “I promise that I will be done with this by the time the song is complete.”

“Sing a short song,” Blaine ordered. He settled back and closed his eyes.

Kurt smiled and sang as he finished his work.

_Come heavy sleep, the image of true death…_

The song was not terribly long, only a couple of minutes, so Kurt finished as quickly as he could. By the time he hit the second verse, he was gently wrapping Blaine’s arm in light gauze bandages.

_O come sweet sleep; come or I die for ever,_

_Come ere my last sleep comes, or come never._

As the last note left his lips, he stood, having tied off the bandage on the arm.

“My apologies, my lord,” Kurt said, smiling down at Blaine as he opened his eyes. “I couldn’t finish the bandaging. I need you to stand so I can wrap your side.”

Blaine immediately lifted himself out of the chair, a bit unsteady on his feet. He turned and held onto the chair for support, leaning over a bit.

“This is the best I can do,” he groaned, his eyes clenched tightly shut.

“It will do,” Kurt replied, quickly leaning forward to wrap the bandages around Blaine. He began to hum, a nameless tune he made up on the spot, attempting to distract Blaine from his pain and himself from the fact that every time he circled the bandages around Blaine’s body he ended up pressed right against the man’s bare back.

“I used to perform as you do.”

Kurt tied off the gauze and stared.  _What?_

“My lord?”

“Before my father died,” Blaine explained. “I used to sing and play. Quite well, if memory serves. Though I never learned the lute.”

“And you do not perform now,” Kurt clarified, tugging the bandages to be sure of their stability.

“No,” Blaine said. His voice was sad. Regretful. “Not in many years.”

“Fortunately,” Kurt said carefully, “it is often easy to regain the skill. Our bodies are good at remembering things.”

Blaine smirked a bit.

“Yes, that’s true,” he said, and Kurt winced at the bitterness as he began to pack his supplies back into the green bag Carole had provided. He felt chagrin at his tactless comment, given Blaine’s visceral reactions to the wolf attack earlier, but he couldn’t think of anything to make the situation better.

“I always wanted to learn the lute, and I fondly remember my other lessons,” Blaine said suddenly. “I would enjoy honing that skill again.”

Kurt stared for a moment before dropping his eyes.

 _And what use would that be against Sebastian?_  he thought.

“Perhaps I could assist you some time, my lord,” he said out loud. “But for now, you need rest.”

He moved forward, placing a steadying hand on Blaine’s back as Blaine shuffled to the bed. He sat heavily on the edge, breathing heavily as he fell back into the pillows.

“Do not leave this bed tomorrow,” Kurt said. “I will instruct Mike in what he needs to do to care for you while I rest as well, but tomorrow morning I’ll return and check your bandages. Your meals will be brought to you here and you are not to move unless your life is in danger, do you understand?”

Blaine looked up at Kurt incredulously.

“You are giving orders?”

Blaine sounded very serious, but a little smile quirked up the corners of his mouth. Kurt gave him a mock glare, deliberately overdoing it.

“I am your attending physician,” Kurt said stuffily, turning up his nose and sniffing haughtily. “Even Princes must answer to their doctors.”

Blaine smirked again, but this time it was warm and full of humor.

“Perhaps you missed your calling,” he said teasingly. “As far as I am aware, minstrels do not have any authority.”

“On the contrary,” Kurt said, “we are in fact the most authoritative of all. After all, it is the minstrels and the bards that truly make history.”

“So you sing of other bards, and not heroes and gods and kings?”

“Oh, we certainly sing of all those things, my lord,” Kurt said, pulling the blankets over Blaine’s body and checking to make sure everything was settled for the night. “And that is why we have the power. If we wish a king to be remembered for his kindness or his cruelty, we only need sing of it and the people will believe it and continue to sing our songs until the end of time.”

“So that is why kings have always had minstrels,” Blaine said, smiling and nodding sagely. “If we feed you, you’ll be nice to us.”

“Exactly, my lord.”

 “I shall be sure to keep you fed, then.”

“If I am to sing of the one that feeds me, my lord, Emma will be pleased at the fanfare.”

Blaine laughed again, a bit hysterical, but Kurt was warmed by it. Blaine had a beautiful smile, even touched by disfigurements.

“Rest, my lord,” Kurt said, retreating. “I will be back in the morning.”

As he closed the door behind him, he heard a faint whisper.

“Till then.” 


	15. Chapter 14

Kurt stumbled back to his room, meeting Mike on the way and instructing him in regards to the Prince being bound to his bed, and washed the grime from his body. He collapsed onto his bed, exhausted. He was asleep within seconds.

He awoke much earlier than he anticipated. The light was barely over the walls of the castle grounds, and it was surprisingly chilly for mid-March. He shivered, quickly searching out warmer clothing for the day than the simple linen tunic he had worn to bed.

As soon as he was dressed, he wandered out of his room. It was far too early to bother Emma for breakfast, and he wasn’t sure if anyone else was awake yet. And he was sure Blaine would still be asleep—and despite his urge to go check on the Prince, he didn’t want to wake him.

Of course, he didn’t actually have to  _wake_  him. He had proclaimed himself physician—he had every right to peek in, and he didn’t have to say a word. Make sure he was breathing well, and maybe check with Mike quickly if he was awake. That would be it.

He walked through the castle quickly, his shivering increasing as he neared the dining hall. It was strangely colder in this part of the castle—and Kurt didn’t recall it being that way previously. He headed to the back entrance to check.

As he suspected, the door was left open, letting in the morning chill. Kurt reached for the great handle, intending to pull it closed.

Movement caught his eye. He peered ahead, making out the shape of a cloaked figure.  He stepped out of the castle, leaving the door open as he walked quietly down the path.

As he drew closer, details came into focus—the figure was standing hunched over before a great bush that was riddled with closed flowers, its leaves light with frost. The bush was rustling, the figure’s hands pulling at something. A branch, brown with wilt and crunchy with frost, came into view, dropped to the ground by a bandaged arm.

 _Blaine_.

He was obviously still weak; his shoulders slumped, his body skewed from favoring his uninjured side. His arm appeared stiff when it dropped the branch. Kurt stepped closer.

“Blaine?”

Blaine startled, hissing and drawing his hand back sharply. Kurt rushed forward, reaching for it with both of his own.

“I’m sorry, “ he blurted reflexively. “I didn’t mean to startle you.” He checked Blaine’s hand, noting the small drop of blood from where he’d pricked himself. Kurt mopped it up with the edge of his sleeve, earning a surprised glance from Blaine. “What on earth are you doing out here?”

Blaine pulled his hand back, refusing to meet Kurt’s eyes.

“The roses…they need tending,” Blaine replied quietly. Kurt followed his gaze to the bush, where several of the roses appeared to be wilting or freezing over.

“Blaine. You can’t be out here in this cold while you’re still healing.”

“I won’t let them wilt,” Blaine whispered, his scars casting strange shadows over his face. His eyes shine just a little too brightly as he finally met Kurt’s gaze fully. “I can’t.”

“You’re too weak—“

“This is important,” Blaine snapped, his voice suddenly forceful. Kurt rocked back a little, as though the words had literally hit him in the face, but he stood his ground.

“So is your health,” Kurt retorted.

Blaine turned away from Kurt, reaching out to grasp a stem awkwardly between his fingers, stiff with pain and cold, his knife held shakily in his other hand. Kurt watched the deep breath he took as Blaine tried to steady himself, but his hand still trembled faintly.

 _Stubborn fool_ , Kurt thought bitterly.  _He’s going to injure himself further._

“Stop,” he said instead. “Blaine, stop.”

Blaine paused and turned a fierce glare on Kurt, opening his mouth to retort, but Kurt cut him off.

“Let me.”

Blaine froze, staring incredulously.

“No one touches these roses but me. You know that, Kurt.”

“Well, if you’re the only one who touches them, they’re going to die.”

“I can handle it,” Blaine insisted, turning back to the plant. Kurt watched carefully as he placed the knife on the edge of a stem, both hands shaking faintly. His jaw tensed and he flexed his arms, but he didn’t cut the plant.

“You can’t handle it,” Kurt said softly.

Blaine’s mouth tensed into a tight, white line.

“Are you saying that—“

“I’m saying that if you don’t  _allow_  me to help, you’re going to collapse,” Kurt snapped, cutting off Blaine’s heated rejoinder. “And then no one will be able to tend your precious roses, and they’ll die anyway.”

The two men faced each other, eyes ablaze and breathe coming heavily. Kurt suddenly felt prepared to slap Blaine into submission, but looking into Blaine’s eyes, he realized something.

Blaine was afraid.

“Please,” Kurt pleaded, softening. “Please let me help.”

There’s hesitance in Blaine’s expression, an uncertainty that Kurt knew he could press.

“Please. Just this once. Just until you’re better. Then I’ll never lay another hand on them.”

Something in Blaine collapsed. His shoulders, drawn tense from the argument, slumped down again, and Kurt could see just how tired he was; his skin pale, his eyes sunken into dark circles.

“Very well.” Blaine stepped away from the shrub, gesturing for Kurt to step forward. “What do you know about tending roses?”

Kurt fidgeted.

“Next to nothing.”

“Very well, then,” Blaine said again. “Give me your hands.”

He placed the knife in Kurt’s right hand and guided his left up to the rose.

“Grasp the stem firmly—you don’t want to slip and cut yourself or the rose itself. You just want to snip away the parts that are wilting or dead from the frost.”

His hand closed around Kurt’s as they grasped the stem of one rose together. The parts of his skin that made contact with Kurt’s own were very warm despite the chill.

“Now bring up the knife, and very, very carefully place it on the edge of the wilting leaf,” Blaine instructed quietly, his face very close to Kurt’s, their breath warm as it mingled between their lips. As Kurt placed the knife as instructed, Blaine quickly lifted his other hand.

“No—like this,” he whispered, correcting Kurt’s grasp. “You want to cut with the knife steady in your palm and catch the blade with your thumb. Cut at an angle, just above the joint.”

“Won’t I cut myself?” Kurt asked, feeling tense from the proximity.

“Not if you’re gentle,” Blaine huffed, the corners of his mouth turning up. “You don’t need a lot of pressure.”

His fingers curled to lay against Kurt’s, and Kurt felt the slightest pressure. He breathed out, finding that he enjoyed the contact after having been so distant from people familiar enough with him to touch him. Blaine’s hands were warm and firm, and the pressure was welcome, but Kurt soon realized that Blaine wasn’t pressing to make contact—he was guiding Kurt into cutting the damn rose. Kurt pressed down quickly, and the knife cut right through the branch and stopped against his thumb too hard, cutting the skin. He jumped, pulling back and sticking his thumb in his mouth.

“You pressed too hard, Kurt,” Blaine reprimanded, but it was very soft, a tone that Kurt hadn’t heard since Blaine told him he was talented the first time he played. “Let me see.”

He pulled Kurt’s hand from his mouth and brought the thumb close to his own face, examining the cut. Kurt realized that if he pressed forward just a little bit, he could press the thumb to Blaine’s lips, just inches away, and—

_…and what?_

Blaine’s own thumb stroked against his softly, and Kurt stared at him, trying to figure out what was going on behind those honey eyes. He has now seen them in many shades since only the night before—anger, fear, pain. He has seen them sparkle with mirth and flatten in defense, but hasn’t seen Blaine look like this. He really had very pretty eyes; Kurt has thought so since the portrait…

“It’s nothing,” Blaine said, snapping Kurt out of his reverie, the softness of his hands betraying the hardness he put into his voice as he turned his face away. “Let’s try again.”

Kurt replaced his hands on the bush, on the joint of the next dead leaf. He placed the knife, and very, very carefully snipped through the tender stem.

“There,” Kurt said triumphantly, dropping the dead leaves. Blaine nodded, a small smile on his face. “Like that?”

“Like that,” he corroborated.

“Is there anything else I need to learn now?” Kurt asked, eyeing the Prince. Blaine shook his head, obviously intending to explain, but Kurt cut him off. “Good. Go sit down in the dining hall or your chambers while I finish.”

Blaine turned to gape at Kurt, but Kurt didn’t budge an inch.

“You are injured and weak,” Kurt insisted. “You need to rest. I told you not to leave your bed.”

“The roses would have been ruined if I hadn’t come out,” Blaine argued. “They can’t handle the frost if parts are dying—the chill can spread and kill more—“

“I understand,” Kurt said, “but—“

“No, you don’t understand,” Blaine said, suddenly flat. “Finish trimming and I will return indoors.”

He turned and walked to a low, crumbled rock wall along the edge of the path. He leaned down, seating himself awkwardly on the stones. Kurt shook his head.

“You’re going to kill yourself,” he muttered, but he turned back to the roses. The faster he finished, the faster Blaine would return inside—arguing would only waste time.

Despite the enormity of the bush—it had obviously been growing for many years—Kurt finished within the hour. The day grew slightly warmer as the sun rose, but it was still enough to make him worry for Blaine, who had remained quietly seated on the rock wall, watching his progress closely.

“There,” Kurt said with a sigh, nodding. “Done. Now get inside.”

Blaine stood, eyes narrowed.

“If you make another comment about me giving orders,” Kurt said, “I will be forced to reply exactly as I did last night.”

Blaine smirked and bowed his head in acquiescence.

“Very well,” he replied, turning and walking slowly to the castle.

Kurt followed him closely, making note of his gait. He was slow and unsteady, obviously weak and tired. He had been a damned fool for leaving his bed against Kurt’s instructions—and he was more than a little miffed that Mike hadn’t kept an eye on Blaine like he’d promised. He’d deal with it after he put Blaine back into bed.

Kurt closed the door behind them when they finally entered the castle, pulling it shut with a resounding thud. He turned to see Blaine watching him closely.

Without his consent, and certainly without his blessing, a faint blush rose to his cheeks. He’d seen that look somewhere before, but he couldn’t place it, its familiarity tugging at his mind and teasing him. He hadn’t seen it on Blaine, though—

Before he could place it, Blaine had turned and started limping toward his rooms.

Kurt followed.

They found Mike in the Prince’s chambers, settling a large wooden basin of hot water in front of the fireplace. As they entered, he looked up, opening his mouth to speak.

“No,” Kurt snipped, holding up a warning hand. “I gave you one job—make sure the Prince’s condition doesn’t worsen. And near collapse in the cold is a worse condition.”

“My apologies,” Mike replied smoothly, apparently unperturbed by Kurt’s annoyance. “He snuck out while I was fetching the hot water, and when I found him you were already with him. I assumed he was in good hands by that point and resumed my duties for his return.”

“Well, at least he’s back now. I’m guessing between the two of us we can stop any more excursions he has planned.”

“I am still in the room,” Blaine interrupted wryly.

“Yes, and as soon as you bathe I’ll apply some comfrey to your wounds and you will  _remain_  in the room for the rest of the day,” Kurt replied firmly, crossing his arms. “And while I’d prefer if you kept to your bed, I will allow you to sit by the fire if you choose.”

Blaine blinked and his eyebrows rose in astonishment. “Allow?”

Kurt kept silent, leveling a condescending gaze at the Prince. Blaine sighed and shook his head, turning toward the basin of water.

“Am I  _allowed_  privacy to bathe?”

Kurt concealed the fluttering in his chest at the thought of the Prince bathing—naked, glistening in the water,  _naked_ —with a carefully raised eyebrow.

“I suppose,” he said, pursing his lips and turning away. He headed to the door. “I will be just outside.”

“I as well,” Mike added, following Kurt out. “Call if you need assistance.”

As soon as the door closed, Mike turned to Kurt.

“How did you convince Blaine to allow you to handle his roses?”

Kurt’s eyes widened.

“Kurt,” Mike persisted. “He literally threw Burt to the  _ground_  he was so angry at finding him with one of those roses. But he just…how did you convince him to let you touch them?”

Kurt shook his head, mouth opening with no sound. He thought hard to that morning, but he couldn’t think of anything special.

“I just…told him that he needed to let me help,” he insisted after a moment. “I told him if he wanted to be healthy enough to continue caring for them at all, he’d need help. And he…he taught me what to do and he sat and watched me do it and then we came inside.”

“Simple as that?”

“Simple as that.”

Kurt was seriously uncomfortable with the look Mike was giving him. “ _What?”_

Mike shook his head. “Kurt, you don’t understand just how important those roses are.”

“I think I do,” Kurt retorted. “After all, like you said, he practically eviscerated my father over it.”

“No, you don’t,” Mike said. “Those roses were a gift to Blaine’s mother from his father. She cared for those roses until her death, and the only person she let help her with them was Blaine. They’re all he has left of her.”

Immediately, Kurt’s own feather pin came to mind—his heirloom, his special reminder that his mother was still with him in spirit. He shuddered at the thought of letting anyone else touch it or wear it, and he felt suddenly like he was close to something important.

“Were he and his mother…close?”

“Very,” Mike said, nodding. “She died when he was young. After that, he was alone with his father, who was never particularly kind. He… _preferred_  Cooper.”

“Preferred him?”

“Blaine and Cooper were very different people,” Mike explained. “Cooper was always very…robust, I suppose. Much more of a forceful personality than Blaine. Blaine is…gentler. Quieter. And he could have been just as charismatic as Cooper, if not more so, but…his father never made any secrets about the fact that he didn’t hold Blaine in very high regard. He often expressed a…negative opinion of Blaine.”

“But why—“

Just then, Blaine’s voice rang from his chambers, summoning them back. Kurt sighed and eyed Mike.

“Tell me more later,” he said, though Mike looked reluctant.

When they reentered, it was to find Blaine pulling up his breeches, just settling on the small of his back as he laced the front. Kurt caught sight of two small dimples on either side of his spine just as the cloth was pulled up. Kurt tried not to stare.

He was failing to not stare when the Prince turned, revealing his bare side, the bandages unbound and revealing the injuries from the night before. They were swollen and red, but they were scabbed over and no longer bleeding. Blaine looked down at himself, believing Kurt to be staring at his wounds.

“They do not hurt as badly as I expected,” he said, and Kurt snapped to attention again, studying the scratches rather than the body they had torn. He stepped forward, pulling the jar of comfrey salve from the bag he had left on the table.

“That’s a good sign,” Kurt said, stepping forward.

“Should I—“

Blaine looked around at the chair by the fire, but Kurt shook his head.

“I don’t want you bending too much,” Kurt explained. “Can you stand for another moment?”

Blaine nodded, lifting his arm and grimacing as Kurt knelt next to him.

“Hold still,” Kurt advised, dipping his fingers into the salve.

He applied the cool ointment steadily, pleased that the cuts weren’t deep enough to prevent him using it. He very deliberately did not watch the way Blaine’s stomach muscles clenched with every touch.

“Am I hurting you?” Kurt asked, concerned at how Blaine was trembling.

“No,” Blaine replied quickly, almost before Kurt finished speaking. “It’s just cold—but it feels good.”

“Good,” Kurt said uncertainly, refusing to look up and meet the Prince’s eye. He was feeling uncomfortable, especially with two sets of eyes on him. He was having a hard enough time reconciling his physical reactions with his thoughts, and he felt exposed and vulnerable, as though both Mike and Blaine could see his conflict and the feelings he was increasingly confused about.

“All done,” he announced a few more awkward minutes later. He stood, setting aside the little jar and gathering up some bandages, noting that the old ones lying to the side had minimal amounts of blood on them. He quickly bandaged the Prince’s side before checking his arm.

“I’m going to need more bandages to bind this,” Kurt announced as he studied the stitches, which were holding up well. He’d leave them be and avoid putting the comfrey on them—he didn’t want the skin to cling to the stitches, making it more painful to draw them when he eventually removed them. “Mike, would you—“

“I’ll see what I can do,” Mike said.

When they were alone, Kurt dabbed away some blood that had dried around the bite using the old bandages, which were bloodier than the ones from his side, convincing Kurt that he had been right to tend this first.

“You look concerned.”

Kurt looked up at the Prince, inhaling sharply when he realized their proximity. He quickly dropped his gaze back to Blaine’s arm, brushing his fingers over the tender skin gently. He felt Blaine’s eyes on him, like beacons, calling him in but too bright to possibly look at directly.

“You are lucky this wound is not more severe,” Kurt said, “but I am concerned about it. You bled more than I anticipated, and much worse than your side.”

“And what does that mean?”

Kurt looked up at Blaine again, quickly locking eyes with him.

“It means you are going to have to limit the use of your arm for a while,” Kurt replied quietly. “I don’t want the muscle tearing after it’s been pierced like this. If that were the case, you’d lose the use of it completely for a much longer period of time. I’d say to give it just a few days to mend a bit, and then you can start using it again, but at least for the next three days, I want you to be gentle with it.”

“Then I shall have to be ready for my lessons after that,” Blaine said.

Kurt blinked.

“Your lessons?”

“I believe you offered to teach me the lute,” Blaine replied. “And considering that over the next three days I shall be teaching you all I know of the care of roses, I believe returning the favor is the least you can do.”

Kurt was fortunately saved the trouble of responding to that when Mike returned, fresh bandages held in his hands. Kurt was deeply grateful, for he had no idea how to take anything the Prince had just announced, and he couldn’t help but run the words through his head again and again as he finished bandaging Blaine’s arm and excused himself.

“Mike, stay a moment,” he heard Blaine say as he was leaving. “I have an important task for you.”


	16. Chapter 15

Through that day and the next, Kurt felt he was missing something.

Castle life went on as usual, and Kurt played for the Prince at dinner, but Wes and David ran off as quickly as they could as soon as the table was set, and Mike, like he had all day, kept disappearing and returning without explanation. The Prince didn’t seem perturbed, but Kurt was, due to its previous detrimental outcome, battling an increasing desire to investigate.

After tending the Prince that evening, and sending him to bed, he went to sup himself, as he usually did with the rest of the servants. However, only Brittany and Tina were present, and their behavior was certainly odd—and that was already taking into account Brittany’s previous behavior. When he asked Tina where everyone was, her smile brightened and widened, but she simply shrugged and said they were busy. Brittany piped in with, “They’re hunting spiders.” Kurt had gone to bed mystified.

On top of that, he’d slept restlessly. All night his dreams had been filled with strange visions of the Prince. They were hard to recall and even harder to explain, but he could have sworn that in one of them he had grown from the rose bush itself and stepped to Kurt, naked and shining beneath the sun, unscarred and smooth, smiling and reaching a hand to Kurt in joyous supplication. Kurt had brushed their fingertips together and felt the deepest ecstasy, but behind Blaine the roses started to shed, and with each petal that hit the ground, a new scar slashed across Blaine’s body. Kurt tried as hard as he could to draw the Prince into his arms, to protect him, but he found that when he stepped forward he ended up moving to the side, or backward, or in any direction but toward the Prince.

He woke confused and still caught up in the dream, and found himself still dwelling on it as he dressed and went to breakfast in an all but empty kitchen, only Emma present, flitting around and preparing vast amounts of food even though there was no one around to consume it. When Kurt inquired when the others would be coming, Emma stuttered and babbled nonsense until he nodded and pretended he understood.

He spent most of the day with the Prince, who insisted on teaching Kurt the intricacies of tending a rose bush, and Kurt had no idea there was so much to it.

“These will bloom within the next day or so, if the weather is good,” Blaine said, circling the bush and running his fingers lovingly over the leaves. Kurt watched him closely—he wouldn’t have let Blaine even come out here, given his state, but the sun was out and, after what Mike had told him about Blaine’s mother, he didn’t have the heart to keep the Prince away.

“Then what?”

“I will cut a few,” Blaine said. “Some for decoration, and some I will use to make rose oil, from the petals.”

“You make your own rose oil?”

“I do,” Blaine said, nodding. “I steep the crushed petals in almond oil, which Santana will fetch from the market today—“

“Did anyone else go with her?”

Blaine turned to Kurt, looking puzzled.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but…everyone is missing,” Kurt said. “I haven’t seen anyone but Emma all day, and usually I see  _someone_ , so I just wondered—“

“No,” Blaine answered, cutting off what was sure to become a ramble. “Just Santana, though perhaps she brought Sam or Puck with her to lift the heavier items. I’m sure it will not be as quiet when she returns tomorrow morning.”

He turned away, and Kurt took it as a dismissal, which left him disappointed and more curious than ever, and a little resentful at being left out of the loop. He was itching to learn what was going on, as he was certain  _something_  was out of the ordinary.

“I should learn to how to cut the roses properly,” Kurt said instead, brushing a fingertip over the velvety underside of a closed bloom. It called his dream to mind, and how soft Blaine’s fingertips had felt against his own before he’d been pulled away—

“We’ll see,” Blaine said, and Kurt immediately narrowed his eyes suspiciously at the Prince, who appeared to now be avoiding his gaze. Kurt expected that he’d come out to find the Prince here without him any day now, despite Kurt’s orders to the contrary.

Just as he was opening his mouth to call the Prince out on his clumsy attempt to hide his intentions, Blaine spoke again.

“I believe you still need to measure me for the garment you’re preparing?”

Kurt stared, eyes wide. He’d forgotten about that.

“Of course, my lord,” he said, noticing belatedly that he was only referring to the Prince as “my lord” as a fallback instead of as a constant, and berating himself for his carelessness. When had he become so familiar? “I would like to wait till your side is feeling a little better, if you like—“

“That will be fine,” Blaine replied, and there was something uneasy between them. A tension, an awkwardness. They had been uncertain with each other since they had met, but it was appearing stronger at strange times, and Kurt wasn’t entirely sure what to make of it.

“What will you use the rose oil for?” he asked, to break the tension and hopefully restart normal conversation.

Blaine sighed, looking over at Kurt unsteadily. Kurt realized it had probably been the wrong thing to say.

“I use it on my scars,” he said. “Sometimes they feel…tight. Uncomfortable. The rose oil soothes them.”

Kurt nodded. Of course. He knew that rose oil could be used on skin, but he had obviously not been thinking properly.

“Was your stepmother not the wife of the apothecary?”

Kurt could have laughed in relief. The Prince was giving him an out, even if he didn’t intend it.

“She was,” Kurt corroborated. “She taught me some things—you know that, of course—but I was only really trained for immediate medical aid. I picked up a few things here or there for other treatments, but I didn’t learn everything. I wasn’t intending to become an apothecary, so I never bothered to learn beyond the basics.”

“Is it supposed to be a comfort to know that my doctor  _never bothered_  with anything but the basics?”

Kurt hummed and tiled his head, taking the teasing for what it was rather than taking offense.

“Well, I suppose it’s more comforting than if I had never bothered to learn anything at all.”

“That’s true,” Blaine agreed, laughing quietly. He was still smiling faintly when he looked back up at Kurt.

“Tell me about your family.”

* * *

Kurt and Blaine spent most of the day together, talking and sitting outside. At one point, Blaine quickly pulled up his hood as Emma came out with a basket of food, insisting that the Prince eat something hearty to keep up his strength, and Blaine thanked her warmly, at which she looked comically shocked, her already-large eyes widening to the point that Kurt imagined them taking over her entire face. When she left, he mentioned it to the Prince, who laughed and suggested Kurt write a tale of it. Kurt had nodded eagerly, then and there throwing out silly jokes and lines he would include, and it had been wonderful to see Blaine smile, his hood thrown back the moment they were left alone.

It was a gift to see Blaine without his hood—it was the strongest defense he had, his strongest armor, and he was allowing Kurt to see behind it. He was expressive, and while his face moved a little strangely around his scars, he was still a fantastic conversationalist, quick to react with sympathy or laughter, and Kurt didn’t feel like he was a servant speaking with his Prince—he felt like a young man speaking to another young man. Kurt hadn’t really expected that, after the Prince had had so little interaction over the years, but he supposed that the novelty of another person to talk to was bringing Blaine out of his shell. He finally understood what Mike had been talking about when he said that Blaine would have been a most charismatic leader. And Kurt was pleased to find that he genuinely liked Blaine and wanted to spend more time with him. He was easy to talk to, and they shared a real connection, if Blaine’s eager participation in their talks was any indication.

Kurt began to wonder, as he took in Blaine’s good mood and open expressions, if Blaine had wanted all these years for someone to just look at him for himself, not for his scars, and if the reason he was so happy was that Kurt was giving it to him.

He was honored to be the one giving that to Blaine. 

When the afternoon wore on, the Prince excused himself, stating only that he had to confer with Mike on some  _business_ —Kurt raised an eyebrow at the term, but kept quiet—and mentioning only that he’d see Kurt again at dinner. Kurt had watched him go, a little sad that he was raising his hood again as he walked.

* * *

Dinner that evening was even more baffling. Wes and David didn’t show up at all, and Mike had set the table by himself, finishing just as Kurt was settling in his stool in the corner.

“Where are Wes and David?”

“Busy,” Mike said with a little smile. “Nothing to worry about.”

Kurt sat and carefully tuned his lute, keeping a suspicious eye on Mike, who kept looking over at him and smiling ever few seconds.

“What?” Kurt finally burst out. “Why is it that everyone keeps smiling at me?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mike replied, far too quickly, his face a sudden mask of polite confusion. Kurt was about to let loose and let him have it when the Prince entered and sat down. His hood was down. He knew Wes and David wouldn’t be showing up.

“I’d like to hear a story,” Blaine said suddenly, about halfway through his meal. He looked over at Kurt expectantly, and Kurt fought off the urge to shudder.

“Of course, my lord.”

Kurt lowered his head and plucked out a little tune on the lute while he thought. Half of him was searching his mind for an appropriate tale, but the other half was marveling that he had gained back Blaine’s trust so soon. His last tale had, after all, been a disaster.

He’d have to make this one a good one.

“Have you ever heard of the Tale of the Godly Bread, my lord?”

Blaine shook his head.

“Well, the tale is this,” Kurt began, smiling to himself mischievously. “There was a boy, and he was none too bright. A handsome, strapping lad he was, but his head was empty of all but nonsense.

“One day, this boy was ordered by his mother to tend to the bread loaves she was baking to feed her sick husband. There were many fine loaves, and they cooked so evenly and brownly, and their scent made the boy’s mouth water. He fancied that he should have one as a reward for minding them so well, and his father being so sick would not miss one, and so he claimed one of the loaves, sprinkling some cheese on its surface to add to its flavor, and reminding him which he had chosen.

“Now the boy began to daydream, thinking of how delicious his cheesy bread loaf would be, when he began to smell burning coming from the oven. He quickly doused the flames of the oven and removed the loaves, saving them just before they were scorched, and thus saving his favor with his mother, but the cheesy loaf, the one he had claimed for himself, was blackened, as the cheese had burned a pattern into the crust of the bread.

“The boy was so very hungry, though, and he didn’t want his mother to catch him wasting a loaf when it was needed to tend his sick father, so he went to eat the cheesy loaf anyway. But when he pulled the cheese from the surface of the bread, he was shocked to see that burnt into the crust was the face of one of the gods!”

Blaine raised an eyebrow incredulously, but Kurt, who was enjoying his storytelling particularly, shook his head.

“No, my lord, I know you don’t believe me, but it was true. And the boy knew from that moment that he was blessed, and had a direct connection with the god who had revealed himself on his cheesy loaf.

“And so the boy set up a shrine to the Godly Bread in his room, and worshiped it and prayed every day. And finally, moved by his devotion, the Godly Bread moved and spoke to him.

“’My son,’ it said, ‘I am pleased at your piety. For this, I will grant you three wishes.’

“The boy considered, and made his first wish. ‘Cheesy Bread God, I wish to be well-loved in this town by all.’

“And so the Godly Bread granted his wish, and when he next ventured into town all the townsfolk wanted his attention and approval. In particular, a girl he had been keeping his eye on was showing him favor, and that night, he returned to the Godly Bread.

“’Cheesy Bread God, I wish my love to grant me all her favors.’

“And so the Godly Bread granted his wish, and when he next saw his beloved she drew him to her bedroom and allowed him the touches of her body.

“But when he left her embrace, there was, in town, another strapping lad waiting to court his lady, a blacksmith’s boy, and she was not averse to his attentions, as this new lad was the most popular boy in the town, so the boy returned to the Godly Bread.

“’Cheesy Bread God, I wish to be the most popular boy in the town.’

“And so the Godly Bread granted his wish, but when he went into town the next morning, all were in mourning. They delighted at his appearance, but all were wearing black and weeping into kerchiefs and wailing their grief.

“’What has happened here?’ the boy asked.

“’Why,’ said the townsfolk, ‘that strapping young blacksmith’s boy has met his demise. Why, this very morning, he choked on a piece of bread!”

“And the boy grew scared, for while his wish was granted and he was now the most popular boy in town and had enjoyed the embraces of his beloved, he never meant for anyone to die. So he returned home and faced the Godly Bread.

“’Cheesy Bread God,’ said he, ‘why have you done this? A good lad has died because of you.’

“’No,’ said the Godly Bread, ‘he has died because of  _you_. Because of your selfishness, a good man has died and your father still lies ill in the next room. I have no more wishes to grant you, and so you must live with your choices.’

“At this the boy grew remorseful, for he had forgotten his ailing father in his excitement at having his very own personal god. Determined to help his father in any way, he took the Godly Bread into the next room and fed it to his father, giving him more nourishment that he had stolen away in his gluttony, and kept away from him in his greed.

“But when the Godly Bread was eaten, suddenly the boy’s father rose from his bed, cured of all ills! His final act of sacrifice in giving his father the bread had absolved the boy of his sins, and in return the bread had cured his father.

“And so, for the rest of his life, the boy prayed to the Godly Bread whenever he ate a new loaf.”

Blaine laughed and clapped when Kurt finished. Kurt was pleased—the entire tale, Blaine had been attentive and reacted just as he wished in all the right places. Now, Blaine shook his head.

“Where did you hear such a tale?”

“I didn’t, my lord,” Kurt revealed teasingly. “I lived it.”

Blaine cocked an eyebrow. “You wish me to believe that not only are you the foolish boy, but you spoke to a god through your bread?”

Kurt preened at the first, finding pleasure in the implicit compliment. “Actually, my lord, it was my brother Finn. And no, he did not actually get three wishes granted from a loaf of bread. But he did believe it to be so. I don’t believe I ever convinced him that the bread wasn’t granting him wishes, but he still prayed to it until he got too hungry and ate it.”

Blaine laughed delightedly, and Kurt smiled at him fondly, pleased his story went over well.

“My lord, I must leave you,” Mike said quietly, leaning forward to interrupt politely. “I have matters to attend to.”

“Of course,” Blaine said, suddenly sobering, waving Mike away. “I will be retiring now myself.”

Kurt nodded, standing from his stool and loosening the strings on his lute.

“How are you doing?” Kurt asked, pointing to the Prince’s bandaged arm. Blaine huffed.

“I am fine,” he said, not unkindly. “Get some supper and rest. You’ve done enough today.”

With that, he left Kurt alone.

Kurt wandered out slowly, preoccupied. He felt confused and a little nervous, sorting through a lot of new things today. All the time spent with Blaine, getting to know and like him; the strange looks and smiles of Mike and Tina; the disappearance of apparently the entire staff. It was all strange and Kurt was having trouble sorting it out. Maybe a good meal and some sleep, maybe a warm tub of water to bathe—

He paused. He was outside the Prince’s chambers.

He’d walked there without thinking, perhaps out of several nights’ habit. He scolded himself and turned right around, heading back into the court and toward the kitchens that way.

He paused again, this time in the middle of the court. He’d heard banging, he was sure of it, and voices. He cocked his head, trying to hear where it came from, and just then a shout echoed from upstairs. Kurt moved forward, heading to the stairs—it hadn’t come from the western side, so he was perfectly entitled to explore.

When he reached the top of the stairs and turned left, it was to see lights flickering under the heavy wooden door he’d ignored two nights ago. There were definitely voices, many of them, and Kurt recognized all of them. So this was where the staff had been all day—but  _why_ …

He moved to the door, getting ready to burst in an see for himself what was going on, but just then the door opened just enough for Mike to slip through.

“What’s going on?” Kurt demanded.

Mike startled, staring. His mouth opened and closed like a fish drawing in water.

“Mike?”

Mike sighed and his shoulders slumped in defeat.

“Look, Kurt, you weren’t supposed to see this yet,” he admitted, and Kurt frowned.

“See what?”

“No,” Mike said, holding up a hand to ward Kurt off as he tried to step forward. “You should let the Prince show you when it’s time.”

“No, Mike,” Kurt insisted, huffing out in exasperation. “Why don’t you just tell me, if I’m going to find out anyway?”

Mike considered for a moment.

“I’ll tell you,” he said finally, “but I’m still going to let the Prince show you when it’s time.”

Kurt nodded after a moment. At least he’d find out what was going on.

“This was once the music room,” Mike said. “The Prince has ordered its renovation. He’s fixing it up for use again.”

“The Prince…is renovating?”

Mike nodded, and Kurt almost burst into tears.

“Is it…just this? Or…or elsewhere—?”

“I don’t know, Kurt,” Mike answered. “I was told to oversee this, but the Prince had me gather up any money I could and he sent Santana into town for a lot of things, and he tapped into the coffers—he hasn’t done that once. There wasn’t much in there, but he’s spending it all on cleaning and building materials. Kurt, I think he might be thinking about fixing things up. For now, it’s just this, but who knows what he’ll do tomorrow.”

Kurt clapped his hands, laughing and feeling tears roll down his face.

“Mike, you know what this means!”

Mike smiled cautiously. “I don’t want to get ahead of ourselves here, Kurt—“

“But what else could it be?” Kurt demanded. “Why would he just pick the one room?”

Mike looked at Kurt and shook his head in wonder.

“You really don’t know, do you?”

“Know what?” Kurt asked.

“Look,” Mike said, ignoring the question, “maybe the Prince will fix things up. But we won’t know until he says so or orders us to do it. Okay?”

Kurt nodded. And later that night, when he was lying down to sleep, he allowed himself to hope again.


	17. Chapter 16

Kurt found Blaine exactly where he expected him to be. He approached the rose bush casually, making sure to make noise as he came up so as not to startle the Prince, who was kneeling before it and cutting a few of the longer stems, the flowers fully bloomed.

“I assume you are here to scold me for being outdoors.”

Kurt knelt next to Blaine, facing the roses. He took a deep breath.

“No, my lord,” he said. “I wanted to thank you.”

He could feel Blaine’s eyes on him, but he resisted the urge to turn and check. He needed to say this, needed Blaine to understand just how grateful he was.

“I don’t believe I told you how I know Lord Smythe.”

“No,” Blaine said quietly, a sad little hitch in his voice. “You didn’t.”

Kurt nodded and took a deep breath.

“I met Lord Smythe in Lima’s tavern the night before my father set out for Westerville,” he began. “I was fetching my brother Finn home for my father, who intended to announce his intent to train Finn to take over his stall at the markets. Lord Smythe was there with the regiment.

“Two of the local men began to harass me. They…they often took delight in haranguing me for my…differences. Lord Smythe intervened, and paid me compliments. He admired my clothing and told me that his clothier was looking for an apprentice, and that he would recommend me.

“I received a letter from him the next day. I couldn’t bear to read it—I know his reputation, and I was afraid of what the letter would contain. Unfortunately, one of his soldiers came to demand an answer to the letter the very next day, while I was out, and my stepmother had to send him away. She insisted I read the letter that night…and I did.”

“What did it say?” Blaine prompted quietly, speaking as though to a startled animal, his voice low and peaceful.

“It requested— _demanded_  my presence for supper with Lord Smythe to ‘discuss my integration.’ He told me to respond at my earliest convenience, but he came to my home the next day himself to demand an answer.”

Kurt huffed out a heavy breath, tears pricking his eyes. He steeled himself to relive the next part.

“Kurt, you—“

“Let me finish,” Kurt pleaded, aware that if he did not say it now he never would. “Sebastian came to my home and…and propositioned me. He made no pretense about needing an apprentice clothier. He…he insisted that I…I come with him and…and be his  _whore—_ “ (here Kurt started crying, his voice shaking) “—and he said…the most  _foul_ things and—he  _grabbed_  me and held me there against my will, and—“

He paused, breathing deeply and trying to control his tears. To his undying gratitude, Blaine allowed him the moment uninterrupted.

“He offered me everything I could want in return,” he continued when he had wiped his tears. “I would be court minstrel when he took over, and no one would have to know of my true purpose in his entourage.  My family would be safe, and I would be doing what I always dreamed of doing—until Lord Smythe had  _need_  of me.”

Blaine inhaled sharply, and Kurt chuckled ruefully.

“I turned him down. He gave me until the end of the month to reconsider. To either go to him willingly, or else…or else I am afraid that he would take me by force or harm my family in retaliation. And I wanted to thank you for…for making sure that I won’t have to make that choice.”

Kurt turned to face Blaine, smiling gratefully. Blaine was wide-eyed, his mouth open as he stared at Kurt.

“You’re the only one with more power,” he said. “And now that you’re fixing things, now that things are changing…Sebastian has no excuse for his coup. If I am here, he cannot touch me or my family, because I am unavailable—he wouldn’t dare contest you, not now. So thank you, for…for summoning me here. And for finally taking your place. I know you aren’t doing it for me, but you should know that I am not the only one you’ll be sparing from Sebastian’s malice.”

Kurt turned to face forward again, restraining himself from spilling more tears and letting out a laugh of pure relief. He found himself facing the bloomed roses, their petals fanned out gracefully.

“These really are beautiful.”

Blaine hummed beside him. “Thank you.”

“I hear…they were your mother’s.”

Blaine’s scars contorted with his faint smile.

“They were. A gift from my father.”

Kurt leaned forward, inspecting the blooms. They were so deep a red that they almost looked black in the shadows of the leaves.

“I’ve never seen anything like them before,” Kurt admitted. “They’re so dark.”

“There’s a reason for it,” Blaine said, his voice quick and almost too quiet, like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud. “Did you know that the color of a rose can change its meaning when presented to someone?”

“I didn’t,” Kurt said carefully, hoping Blaine would continue speaking. He had a soothing voice when it wasn’t growling or shouting.

“Normal red roses are for passion, or courage, with a single one being a declaration of love,” Blaine explained. “Yellow roses are for friendship or joy. White expresses purity, and pink gives thanks. If you can find a lavender rose, it signifies enchantment with someone, and a hope for true love to blossom. And how many you give can mean something else. If you receive thirteen roses, you have a secret admirer. Eleven roses signify the deepest love and devotion. Six indicates a request for love. Two roses declare the intent to marry. One rose with its thorns removed means someone has fallen in love with you at first sight. There are other meanings, depending on the color, or number, or age of the rose. Much can be said with these simple flowers.”

“What do these roses mean?” Kurt asked, carefully leaning in to smell the heady scent. It was strong, stronger than other roses he had encountered. He turned to look at Blaine. “These aren’t a normal red.”

Blaine’s reaction was strange. His smile was small and sad, but his eyes were hopeful. His body was tense, though, as though he were afraid.

“These roses primarily signify an unconscious beauty, one that isn’t seen forthright,” he said finally. “But there’s much more to them than that. They profess deep longing and desire, a love that is passionate beyond words. They express a feeling that can’t be spoken for its intensity. They are given to break down barriers and deepen a love even if it is considered too early for such feelings. And they are uncompromising in their declaration—one should only give a dark red rose when their love is so fervent that it cannot be denied.”

Kurt’s eyes pricked with tears again, for he felt deeply Blaine’s sincerity and ardency and his emotions were already so close to the surface.

“On the other hand,” Blaine continued, “they can be given to a love lost. And in that, they express that though two cannot be together, the love never dies. The day my mother passed, she cut a single rose and laid it on my father’s pillow. She knew she was dying, you see, and she wanted him to know that her love would remain with him when she could not.”

Kurt was genuinely surprised and moved to see tears in Blaine’s eyes as well. His own fell, expressing what he knew Blaine would not; what Blaine would hide behind his armor and his scars.

And if Blaine would not express it, Kurt would have to do it for him.

 

 

Blaine wore his hood again at dinner that night. The day had been spent in a state of far too much vulnerability, and while Mike and Kurt had seen him without it, Wes and David had not, and Blaine didn’t want to risk their suspicions or excitement. He wasn’t ready to bare himself yet, no matter how much progress had been made toward revealing himself.

That was the inevitable conclusion. He hadn’t planned to set his return to court in motion when he ordered the music room renewed. He had only wished to please Kurt, to see him happy, and he hadn’t anticipated that Kurt would misconstrue his actions. He had steeled himself to explain, to tell Kurt that he was only fixing the one room, but then Kurt had told the story of his connection to Sebastian.

Blaine had never been so close to seeing red.

He had imagined that Kurt and Sebastian had been lovers, or acquaintances. And he was well aware of his cousin’s perverse treatment of his tenants. But he had never guessed that the bastard would treat Kurt in such a manner—would frighten and blackmail someone into his pleasures rather than seducing them.

And now he understood.

He had imagined Sebastian would be firm, perhaps even a ruthless ruler—he wasn’t a moral man, or a gentle one—but he had never truly believed him to be cruel or blatantly despotic.

He had never truly believed that he would make a better ruler himself. Until now.

Until Kurt. Kurt, who was a victim and not a willing participant in Sebastian’s unscrupulous behavior. And suddenly all of Blaine’s imaginings of Kurt and Sebastian pressed together, naked and sweating and groaning, turned sour, filled with images of Kurt struggling and begging to be freed. Kurt…whom he could protect.

“My lord, if I may?”

Blaine turned to look at Kurt, dressed in all black but for his feather pin, gracefully perched on his stool in the corner, as always.  _Perhaps I’ll provide him with a more comfortable seat—_

“I have written a song,” Kurt continued. “Would my lord permit me to sing it?”

Blaine studied Kurt carefully for a moment. He was obviously a bit nervous—his voice was higher than usual, breathier. He was fidgeting slightly under Blaine’s gaze, stroking the wood of his lute unconsciously, tension in his shoulders and an anxious smile on his face. Blaine smiled fondly, fighting to hold back a laugh.  _He is certainly adorable…_

“Very well,” Blaine said, nodding, pleased that he kept his voice even. He settled back in his chair as Kurt relaxed and began to pluck out notes, his beautiful mouth curving around high, clear notes.

_O bird, black bird that sings by night,_

_Thou learnst with broken wing to fly;_

_And thru thy life’s despair entire,_

_Abides for space to rise._

Blaine suddenly felt as though his breathe were stolen from him. Kurt was staring directly at him as he sang, his face full of—of  _too much_.

_O bird, black bird that sings by night,_

_Thou seen with eyes of sunken hue;_

_And thru thy life’s despair entire,_

_Abides to flee from gilded mew._

Kurt was singing about  _him_. He was singing to him and about him and Blaine could see nothing but the beautiful man before him, his white fingers, his pink mouth, his eyes like the fires of the Northern sky, like harlequin opals, like stars exploding.

_Fly, o bird, to darkness’ light;_

_Abide for space to rise._

The last note of the lute rang out, unexpectedly sweet after such a plaintive melody. Blaine had never been more thankful for his hood, for he could not be entirely certain of just how besotted he appeared.

“My lord?”

Blaine cleared his throat, turning away. He couldn’t think and look at Kurt at the same time, but as soon as he turned he realized he needed to do what he had been contemplating since he cut the roses that morning. He looked over at Mike, whose smile was knowing, but kind. He beckoned Mike forward.

“Delay him from returning to his room,” he whispered when Mike drew close. “And when he returns, let him return alone.”

Mike bowed his head in agreement and stepped back. Blaine stood and left the room. 

 

 

Kurt didn’t understand.

He had spent all day writing that song, the words flowing out of him without cease. He had cleaned it up, set it to the tune that was floating through his mind, and practiced it until he knew it better than any song he’d heard his entire life. It was  _his_  song… _Blaine’s_  song. He had never felt that he understood the Prince more.

And he had been so sure the Prince would like it.

He turned to Mike, and the dismay must have shown clearly on his face, for Mike offered him a gentle smile.

“Don’t worry, Kurt,” he said softly. “He wasn’t displeased.”

“Then why—“ Kurt cut himself off and took a shaky breath.

“Kurt, when do you think the last time the Prince had a song written for him?”

Kurt blinked.

“I’m not—“

“Never,” Mike said bluntly. “He has never had a song written for him. Do you know how many songs Cooper had written for him? Or his mother? Or the King?”

Kurt didn’t know the answer to that either, but only because there were so many. He let out a gust of breath, looking down at his lute like it was suddenly magical. He had just given Blaine something that he had probably wanted his entire life. Mike nodded when he saw Kurt realize.

“And your song…Kurt.”

Kurt looked back up at Mike, who was  _crying_ , smiling as his eyes filled with tears.

“I hope you realize just how overwhelmed Blaine must be right now,” he said. “Give him some time to process this.”

Kurt nodded, looking back down at his lute. He had wanted to give Blaine this gift, had wanted to affect him and let him know what Kurt thought of him. And he had never felt more proud of something he had written. In fact, he’d never shared anything he’d really written before, because he’d never felt it was good enough. But he had thought of the Prince, thought of all the beauty that he kept caged away, and he had ended up with something he felt he could share with anyone.

He didn’t want to hide this song. Just like he didn’t want Blaine to hide himself anymore.

The enormity struck him entirely in that moment. He hadn’t meant for it to be this much—but it had, and there was no going back.

 _And what does it say about your feelings?_  asked a small, honest part of him.  _You wouldn’t have written this for just anyone, would you have?_

 No. He wouldn’t have.

“I’m going to clean this up,” Mike said, and Kurt saw him settling down a couple of lit candles on the table. “Would you mind putting out the fireplace?”

Kurt set his lute down with a silent nod and crossed the room. As Mike shuffled around behind him, stacking the remnants of the Prince’s supper and cleaning up, he poked out the embers and buried them in ash automatically, concentrating more on making sure he kept the filth off of his outfit—ash smearing the black would be unsightly.

As soon as the fire was out, he stood and turned. Mike smiled at him and handed him a candle.

“I’m going to settle things in the Prince’s chambers,” he said. “Good night.”

“Good night,” Kurt replied, turning away.

He walked slowly through the halls, his thoughts whirling. He had never been more confused about his own mind. What exactly was he doing? He had written a song for his  _Prince_ , and it wasn’t in a spirit of friendship or distant admiration.

 _You know him, now,_ he thought. And Mike had told him—the Prince was a good man. Kurt knew now that this was true—but he wondered if Mike had known anything else; about his beauty, his bravery, his loneliness—

“Kurt.”

Kurt gasped, eyes snapping up and left hand clutching hard at the candle, which he had almost dropped in his surprise. A gentle arm stopped him from taking another step, its warm weight across his abdomen, a broad hand rested on his left hip. The Prince stood very close to his right, their shoulders touching. Kurt turned his head, and he found Blaine’s face, bared from the hood, only inches away.

“I wanted to thank you for your song.”

Blaine’s voice was low, almost a whisper, deeper than Kurt had ever heard it. His lips barely moved, but Kurt couldn’t draw his eyes away from the way they looked in the candlelight.

“You don’t know what it meant to me,” the Prince continued, “to hear you sing it.”

Kurt nodded, feeling as though every inhale was too little, as though Blaine were stealing the very breath from his lips.

“Please look at me.”

Kurt raised his eyes to Blaine’s. The candlelight shone off the gold of Blaine’s eyes, revealing flecks of green that Kurt had not seen before.

“Please allow me to show my thanks,” Blaine murmured, the words drifting from his mouth in soft puffs of air that reached Kurt’s own. They were so close, too close, and when Kurt nodded, a soft  _yes_  tumbling from him, Blaine very lightly pressed the tip of his nose to the side of Kurt’s own.

“Thank you,” he whispered. He stepped past Kurt, his hand drawing a line of fire across Kurt’s stomach and hip.

And then he was gone.

 

 

When Kurt arrived at his room, his body tingling, his lips aching, he noticed something on his pillow.

It was a single dark red rose, all its thorns removed.


	18. Chapter 17

The next morning found Blaine pacing his rooms, second-guessing his bold move the night before. He was feeling twitchy, uncertain, and above all, terrified, so much so that he startled violently when his door banged open and Santana strode through, followed by an obviously exasperated Mike.

“Okay, so first things first,” Santana said, effectively ignoring Blaine’s reaction and cutting off Mike, who had begun to berate her. “I got everything you wanted in town, and your money is gone. So next time I go into town I’m going to have to sleep with someone if we want to buy anything. Just so you know.”

“I don’t think that will be necess—“

“Secondly,” she continued, speaking right over him, “that music room of yours isn’t going to be ready for another couple of days, seeing as how we only have about five people who are fit enough to handle the physical labor and two of those are wearing dresses. Third, have you come to your gods-damned senses?”

Blaine relaxed. Santana had just given him something to respond to, making what he had to say easier to get out.

“You won’t have to sell yourself, Santana, much as I’m sure you’d enjoy that,” Blaine replied, smirking just a bit at her narrowed eyes. “We’ll be able to afford everything in due time. That includes hiring laborers to finish renovations on the castle. I suppose the question of my senses will depend on a few things.”

“Like how the hell we’re going to afford any of that?” Santana suggested.

“Just that,” Blaine said, unable to keep a hint of smugness out of his voice. Now that he’d decided, he felt a new confidence filling him, breaking away the shell. The fact that Santana hadn’t made a single comment about his appearance despite his lack of wearing a hood helped immensely. “I have orders for you both.”

They both remained silent, and Blaine faced them fully, standing straight.

“Mike, you’re going on a trip—you’ll be gone for a little while, so I’d spend today with Tina before you set out tomorrow.”

“Where am I going?” Mike asked when Blaine didn’t elaborate.

Blaine savored the moment before quietly announcing, “You’ll be visiting the Lords’ estates. Start with Haverbrook, as it’s furthest away. Then travel as you like to Carmel, Westvale, Defiance, Lima, and Westerville. Though if you’d like to skip over Lima, I’d understand completely, and we can handle accounts with Lord Smythe at a later date, when our position is solidified.”

“What are you saying?” Santana demanded.

“Mike’s going to collect tithes,” Blaine said calmly. He looked back over at Mike. “I understand it might be difficult to persuade the lords to immediately hand over seven years’ worth of payments, but that is the ultimate aim. I will allow them some room to maneuver, but I will insist that you collect at least this year’s and inform them that they will be expected to render accounts and plan for back payment before you depart for the next location.”

“This won’t make you popular,” Mike warned, the warning made less dire by the smile he was clearly unable to keep from his face.

“I think I will still be more popular than Lord Smythe, don’t you?” Blaine asked sincerely. “Collecting what is owed must be better than demanding more payment as time goes on, as I’ve heard Lord Smythe has done to Lima. I’m sure this pattern would continue with all the kingdom at his feet. And if you need to use that argument with the Lords, I encourage you to do so.”

Mike grinned, nodding.

“Haverbrook is three days’ travel from here,” Mike said. “I won’t spend more than one night at each estate—I just need to deliver the message, correct?”

“I don’t see why the Lords can’t send their pages with the payments, no,” Blaine agreed.

“Then three days’ travel, one night in each province except Lima, ending in Westerville. If I leave tomorrow morning and make no stops, I should return a few days before the end of the month. That gives us—“

“Three weeks,” Blaine said. “Exactly twenty-one days until my birthday. And I wish court to be in session for the first time on that day. Which is where you come in,” he added, turning to Santana.

“You expect me to get everything done in three weeks?” she asked incredulously, raising an eyebrow at Blaine.

“I believe in your abilities, yes,” Blaine said mildly.

Santana looked him up and down, and Blaine felt distinctly judged before realizing that a slow smile was growing on her face. He grinned back when she finally looked right at him and said simple, “Done. I don’t need to actually pay for anything up front anyway—everyone will be so eager to get a glimpse of your lumpy mug that if anyone complains I can find a replacement faster than Hummel wants to grab his ankles.”

“Santana,” Blaine warned, turning to her with a glare. She smirked widely and nodded, as though expecting the reaction.

“Mmhm. In any case, I can go into town tomorrow and start commissioning all the poor sods I can get my claws on. That gives me a just under a month. Anything else?”

“One last thing,” Blaine said. “Don’t tell Kurt. I want him to figure it out for himself.”

And before either of them could reply, there was a knock on the door. 

That morning at breakfast, Kurt was pleased to be in the company of everyone but Mike and Santana, including the Armsmaster Beiste, whom he had never met.

“Aren’t you just a darlin’ little punkin,” she said, her heavy accent marking her as being from out of the kingdom. “When am I gonna see you out at the practice field? Skinny little thing like you, expect you could barely pick up a sword, and I’m aimin’ to fix that.”

Kurt had politely told her he didn’t know when his duties would leave him free to come and left it at that. His immediate like for the gruff woman didn’t lead him to respond like he would’ve if one of the village boys had said something to the same effect.

“So, Kurt,” Mercedes said, turning to face him at the table, leaning forward and smiling. “You know that the Prince is renovating, right?" 

“I saw,” Kurt replied, smiling back and leaning in, savoring the fact that she was sharing the gossip with him. “Last night. Is it just the music room?”

“For now,” Mercedes said. “I can’t imagine what’s going to happen next. I mean, first the Prince starts hiring people like you and Tina, and yesterday Brittany told me he spent the entire day out of his rooms—and she  _swore_  she saw him with his hood down! Who knows what’s going to happen next. I for one am curious to see just what he’s been hiding under there. Do you think the Prince is planning to resume court?”

“Oh, I hope so, Mercedes.” Kurt tried not to smile too widely at the mention of the Prince spending time out of his rooms—he had to admit to himself that he was more than a little pleased to have been the cause of that, and at the fact that he had seen the Prince’s face.

“Well, as of yesterday, it’s exactly a month till the Prince’s birthday,” she said. “Plenty of time to get things going, if you ask me. I mean…I don’t see why he would wait. And as soon as it’s open he can start planning on becoming King.”

Kurt tilted his head.

“You think?” he asked. “I mean…I’m not really sure what the difference is.”

“He’ll find a queen, silly,” she said. “He’s Prince as long as he’s unmarried, but as soon as he finds a wife he can take the title of King. I mean…there isn’t really much difference besides the title, but it’ll make everything legitimate.”

“He can’t be legitimate without a queen?” Kurt persisted, trying to keep his voice even. He felt like everything inside of him was sinking to his feet, making every move heavy.

“Well, he can’t have an heir without a queen,” Mercedes said, seemingly unaware of Kurt’s world taking a strange downward turn. “And why not? He’s the most eligible bachelor out there—plenty of young ladies would kill for the chance to be courted by him. And when court opens up, I’m sure the noblemen will be flooding the place with their daughters.”

Kurt nodded and turned back to his food, but each bite he took felt like he was eating ash. After a few perfunctory bites he pushed the plate away and excused himself, telling Mercedes he had to work to do before leaving as quickly as he thought he could without arousing suspicion.

He found himself wandering into the court, sunlight filtering through the dusty windows and falling onto the neglected splendor of the room. He stared around and finally allowed himself to feel the crushing disappointment that had been pushing at him since Mercedes mentioned Blaine’s ascension to King.

What else had he expected? He didn’t even know if Blaine favored men for sure. All the evidence pointed to it—their encounter last night had not been the slightest bit platonic, and the rose on his pillow had been the most romantic thing Kurt had ever heard of, even outside of his own experience. After their talk, he knew it to be a declaration—the color, the removed thorns, the fact that it was the only one. All things Blaine had taught him about just the day before he received it. So it was clear that Blaine was courting him.

But he had to marry, and he had to have an heir. Kurt knew that homosexuality was more common amongst the nobility, but a Prince who was to be King…that was different. He couldn’t have children with another man, and he had an obligation to his kingdom, didn’t he?

So why the rose? Why the entirely pleasing confrontation in the hallway?

Kurt shook his head and sighed, pushing these thoughts away. He wouldn’t know by standing around and wondering, and he had duties to attend to.

He walked slowly to the Prince’s chambers, trying to gather his wits and compose himself before he arrived, just barely succeeding before the great wooden door was before him and his knocks were echoing down the hall.

The door opened to reveal Santana, smirking like the cat that got the cream, or the mouse, or perhaps an entire nest of mice bathing in cream. It was a very complex smirk.

“He’s inside,” she said, brushing past him. As he stepped in, Mike also left the room, smiling at him widely.

“Kurt. Come in.”

Kurt stepped in and saw the Prince, unhooded and dressed rather more neatly than usual, his shirt whiter and his jerkin more polished, though still the same black leather he was used to now. He was smiling and looking at Kurt with an expression that spoke of affection, and Kurt felt a knot in his throat that he tried to clear quickly.

“I came to check on how you are healing, my lord,” he said, doing his best to sound polite and professional. Blaine’s smile twitched, falling just enough to lose a bit of its warmth, and Kurt took a steadying breath, fortifying himself against the weak feeling in his legs that was growing stronger by the moment.

“Of course,” Blaine replied. Kurt moved forward and took the Prince’s hand in his own, taking a small guilty pleasure in the feeling of their skin being in contact as he pushed up the sleeve gently. He’d left the bandages off to allow the wounds to breathe.

“This is healing well,” Kurt said, studying the stitches. “I should be able to remove them in another two or three days. How does it feel when you move it?”

“Not bad,” Blaine said, moving it around and opening and closing his fist, flexing his forearm. Kurt kept hold and stared as he felt the muscles moving under his hand, prominent veins appearing on the surface under his fingers. “A little sore, but mostly it just feels tight.”

Kurt nodded, swallowing. “That’s to be expected.”

Their eyes met shyly, but Kurt immediately dropped his gaze, pulling his hands away from Blaine’s skin.

“And how does your side feel?”

“Fine,” Blaine said. “It itches sometimes.”

“That’s good,” Kurt replied, feeling a little awkward. “That means it’s healing well.”

“Do you need to check it?”

“No,” Kurt blurted, just a little too quickly. “No, the last time I checked the skin was mending, as long as it doesn’t tear, you’ll be just fine. Just let me know if you start bleeding again or if you notice anything unusual.”

They fell into an uncomfortable silence. Just as Kurt was debating whether or not to just leave, Blaine spoke.

“I wonder if, as my side is feeling better, we could finish the measurements for my garment?”

“Right now, my lord?” Kurt asked, finally looking up into Blaine’s eyes, allowing himself just a moment to enjoy the light reflecting off of the smooth honey. “I’d have to return to my rooms, but—“

“Tonight,” Blaine corrected, “after supper. That way you can bring your lute as well and you can show me a little of that. I know the acoustics in here aren’t all that we could wish, but it’s all I have for now.”

“That would be fine, my lord,” Kurt nodded, smiling bashfully, feeling a little guilty that he had basically ruined the secret of the Prince’s renovation. “I’m sure the acoustics in here would be fine for the moment.”

“Very well then,” Blaine said, gesturing to the door. Kurt nodded and turned, taking it as a dismissal.

When he reached the door, however, he was surprised to find Blaine reaching ahead of him, pulling the door open for him.

As Kurt stood and stared, he reached down, grasped Kurt’s hand in the one he wasn’t using to hold open the door, and lifted it, carefully leaning forward to brush his lips across the tender skin of his knuckles.

“Till tonight,” he said softly, a charming smile lighting his features, his hand carefully replacing Kurt’s by his side.

Kurt bowed his head, his cheeks burning, resisting the urge to do something mortifying like  _giggle_ , and walked slowly out.

“Tonight." 

Kurt felt like lightning was crackling through his veins as he waited for the Prince to arrive for his supper that night. He could barely sit still, his whole body aching with anticipation. And he knew his fidgeting was noticeable by the stares he got first from Wes and David, and then from Mike, whose looks were at least broken up with smiles. Wes and David had looked at him like he was going crazy.

What was going to happen with the Prince tonight? He was certain now, after Blaine had kissed his hand, that he was being courted somehow. He wasn’t sure if it was really serious or if he was imagining things.

In his head Blaine’s voice whispered  _one rose with its thorns removed means someone has fallen in love with you at first sight_ and  _one should only give a dark red rose when their love is so fervent that it cannot be denied._

Had Blaine really fallen in love with him at first sight? Had he really known the moment he watched Kurt from that darkened colonnade? Kurt could hardly believe it. He was sure that had this been another life, had Blaine been whole and undamaged, Kurt would have been the one falling in love at the first, hoping and praying every day to be noticed by the handsome, charming Prince who had stolen his affections. Kurt could feel the tale growing within him, begging to be told—but he didn’t want to tell it until he was sure it was complete.

How would it end?

The Prince entered as he contemplated this, and he noticed two things. First, he was dressed casually—he had left off his jerkin, leaving him in a clean, crisp white shirt, the throat tied loosely, revealing his scarred neck and collarbones, a faint dusting of dark hair peeking through the lacings. And with his jerkin gone, he had no hood—and if Wes or David returned for some reason, he would be unable to hide beneath it.

Kurt found himself feeling desperately proud of Blaine for leaving behind that measure of safety.

The second thing Kurt noticed was that Blaine was clean-shaven. His face was free of the wiry beard he’d sported, the skin between the scars looking very smooth, and Kurt suspected he had just finished moments before by the light sheen on his skin, probably from whatever lather he’d used.  _I wonder if he used rose oil…_

Kurt started playing quietly as Blaine sat down and began his meal, and it was only about halfway through the meal that he realized he’d been playing the same five or six notes over and over again and openly staring at Blaine. He was brought back to himself by the way he realized Blaine was looking back at him, looking vaguely puzzled. Kurt flubbed a note and dropped his gaze, blushing furiously and cursing himself. He picked up playing again, studying the floor and concentrating on not messing up again.

After a few more agonizing minutes, he heard Blaine dismiss Mike. Kurt stopped playing and looked up to see Blaine rising from his seat, looking carefully over at Kurt.

“Are you ready?”

Kurt nodded and leaned over to pick up his tailoring things, grasping them in one hand and his lute in the other, following Blaine out and to his rooms.

They were alone when they entered the chambers. Kurt kept looking around to see if Mike was coming to tend to things before the Prince went to bed, but to all appearances the Prince’s steward was not coming, so he set his things down and turned to the Prince apprehensively.

“What shall we do first, my lord?”

“Why don’t you show me a little of the lute, first?” Blaine suggested. “I won’t keep you too long tonight—I just want to see. Perhaps you could show me how to play that tune you kept playing tonight?”

Kurt looked up sharply, expecting to see the Prince mocking him, but it was nothing so cruel. His smile was certainly a bit teasing, but Kurt detected no meanness, and took it for what it was—a gentle joke.

“Of course, my lord.”

Blaine was a quick study. Kurt only needed to adjust the Prince’s grip on the instrument twice, once at the start and once when he was trying to hold down the appropriate strings. Within half an hour, Blaine was playing the same notes Kurt had played at dinner, although slowly and a bit clumsily.

“Very good,” Kurt said, genuinely pleased as the Prince smiled happily at his success. He gently removed the lute from the Prince’s grasp and put it down out of the way. “Shall we…take the measurements now, so I can start on your garment?”

Blaine nodded and stood. “What do you need me to do?”

Kurt considered, a tense, almost empty feeling in his chest that turned to tingling as it slipped lower through his body, leaving him with a feeling of anticipation in his belly that left his breathing heavier and his head swimming. He looked over the Prince, in his thin shirt and tight leather breeches, and came to a decision for his own sanity.

“I just need you to stand still over here,” Kurt said. “I’ll take the measurements and write them down, and then I should be able to embroider the fabric as we discussed. I’ll sew it after that, and you should have a completed garment within a few weeks, depending on how much time I have to devote to the task.”

Kurt settled his paper and stick of coal on the table and beckoned the Prince closer. He picked up his measuring tape and turned to Blaine.

“Lift your arms.”

Blaine lifted his arms and Kurt immediately stepped in to measure as quickly as possible. Being so close to the Prince, touching his body in tiny, accidental brushes—it was driving Kurt mad. He felt like the entire situation was a waking dream, and he hardly knew what he was doing. Time felt unreal, as though it were passing too slow and too quickly all at the same time.

“Are you all right?”

Blaine was looking at him with concern, but Kurt waved him off.

“I’m fine. Just…having a little bit of difficulty.”

He was. The shirt was large and kept bunching under the tape, throwing the measurements around Blaine’s chest and hips off. And based on the way he’d been tugging at the fabric, Blaine probably couldn’t help but notice his trouble.

“Should I remove it?”

Kurt took a deep breath and steadied himself for the inevitability.

“Yes, please.”

Blaine swiftly removed the shirt, leaving him bare above his hips. Kurt again moved in to measure quickly, feeling little jolts of excitement and uncertainty and a certain amount of arousal every time his fingers brushed Blaine’s bare skin. But soon enough, he was finished with the measurements for the doublet he had planned. He turned back to Blaine after making a quick note on the parchment.

“Now I need to measure for the hose. Please stand with your legs apart.”

Blaine nodded and complied, and Kurt grabbed the parchment and knelt at his feet, the tingling feeling that had been swirling through his gut swiftly culminating in an uncomfortable rush to his groin. There was something deeply erotic about kneeling at Blaine’s feet. Kurt was all too well aware of the implication of the position, of the innuendo, and by the way Blaine was breathing deeper, heavier above him, he knew it wasn’t lost on the Prince either.

“I’ll be quick,” he said, and he wasn’t sure who he was reassuring, if it was at all needed.

He was indeed quick, taking the measurements and noting the numbers. When he measured or the inseam, he very deliberately kept his hand and his eyes away from Blaine’s crotch, though focusing on his thigh was hardly better. But soon enough he had everything he needed.

“All done, my lord,” he said, his voice breathy and husky in a way that he hadn’t intended. Blushing for what felt to be the millionth time, he stood slowly, aware of Blaine stepping in as he did so, closing the distance between them as he rose.

“I trust you have all that you need, now?” Blaine asked, and Kurt nodded silently, feeling as though he could not pull enough air into his lungs. He almost fell to gasping as he felt the tape and parchment taken from his hands and laid aside, all without Blaine moving from within inches of Kurt.

“Tell me to stop,” Blaine whispered, looking into Kurt’s eyes, and Kurt couldn’t look away even as he felt Blaine’s fingertips brushing up his arm and over his shoulder, stopping to caress his collarbone. “I will stop.”

“I don’t want you to stop,” Kurt admitted in a rush of breath, allowing himself finally to heave for the air that he had been denying himself, his sensitive neck tingling as Blaine drew patterns over the tender skin. He blinked slowly, his eyelids feeling heavy as he tilted his head to the side, instinctively and silently asking for more contact.

“Then I will not.”

Blaine leaned in further, his breath ghosting over Kurt’s face. His fingers brushed up the taut tendon in Kurt’s neck and tickled lightly along his jaw.

“Did you like my rose?”

Kurt took a shuddering breath and nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Blaine exhaled his relief, a small, wondering smile gracing his features.

“Good,” he said, slipping his fingers into the hair around Kurt’s ear, his palm cupping Kurt’s cheek and his thumb smoothing over the skin beneath it. His other hand folded over Kurt’s hip. “Then I have something you should know.”

Kurt looked into Blaine’s eyes, unable to keep himself from darting glances at Blaine’s lips every few seconds as he waited, drawing his own hands up Blaine’s chest, his fingers drawing along the scars there.

“I wish to pledge myself to you, Kurt Hummel,” Blaine said, brushing the tip of his nose against Kurt’s briefly before moving to one side. “I wish to pledge my loyalty—“ he pressed a gentle kiss to Kurt’s jaw “—and my love—“ he kissed again, this time on Kurt’s cheek “—and my devotion—“ his lips brushed Kurt’s forehead “—and I shall continue to pledge this—“ his other cheek fell beneath those lips “—for the rest of my days.” Blaine finally kissed the other side of his jaw before pulling back just enough to look into Kurt’s eyes again. “Do you accept my pledge, Kurt?”

Kurt brushed Blaine’s scarred cheeks beneath his hands, exploring with awe how beautiful the Prince was in the light of both the fireplace and his own passion. He saw it all for one instant—spending his days composing sonnets and songs to his Prince, spreading tales of his perfection; spending his nights tangled with him, whispering their love in the space between their bare flesh, falling asleep and waking to the sweet pressure of it.

And then he remembered what Mercedes had told him that very morning.

_As soon as he finds a wife he can take the title of King…and when court opens up, I’m sure the noblemen will be flooding the place with their daughters._

Kurt gasped, drawing back, his head filling with sudden, bitter thoughts.

 _He could never be accepted as King with someone like me—not only a peasant, but a man. He knows this. He wants the same thing as Sebastian_.  _He wants a whore he can call on when he’s not begetting an heir._

_He can never truly love me._

“No, my lord,” he said, his voice trembling with his emotion; his disappointment and his despair. “I cannot.”

And before Blaine could see the tears fall, Kurt turned and fled from the room.


	19. Chapter 18

That night, Kurt didn’t sleep. In fact, he didn’t return to his room at all. Instead, he wandered the castle, ending up by the roses in the back. He sank to his knees before them and wept, wishing with all his heart that he had never met Blaine and that he had never given away his heart without even realizing what he’d done.

And now it was broken.

He had been foolish to believe he could ever be with Blaine entirely. Blaine needed an heir, needed to be King and rule the kingdom without question. He needed a queen. And even if he flouted that and took a husband instead, he couldn’t take a peasant. The people would never accept it. Kurt could only conclude that Blaine knew the implications. And Kurt could not live a life where he was used for pleasure only when duty did not call Blaine to another’s bed. He couldn’t bear the thought. He could never lay in his bed, cold and alone, and know that somewhere, his beloved was in the embrace of another.

So he could not make Blaine his beloved.

Resolved to this, and resolved to simply perform his duties until such a time as he could make his way back home, Kurt returned to his rooms and, unable to rest, started embroidering the fabric for Blaine’s garment. If nothing else, he could give Blaine something beautiful before he left.

It was hours later, his fingers tired and aching, when his door opened slowly.

“Kurt.”

Kurt pulled his needle away from the cream cloth he was embroidering, pulling the red thread he’d chosen taut before piercing the fabric with the needle once more. Pierce and pull, pierce and pull, pierce and pull, over and over until the garment was complete.

“Yes?”

“It is my wish that you accompany me to the western fields. I…would like to consult with you on a few matters.”

Kurt sighed and set down his needle. His hands had started to tremble slightly, so continuing the delicate task would be nigh on impossible now even if he hadn’t been exhausted. He nodded and laid aside his things before rising and turning to face the Prince.

“Of course, my lord,” he said, bowing respectfully. He didn’t miss the grimace on Blaine’s face at that, but he couldn’t afford to get any closer to the Prince. It just wasn’t his place anymore.

Blaine led the way out and onto the path heading for the western side of the castle. They walked silently, Kurt trailing half a pace behind Blaine. It was awkward, but they continued their walk without any attempts to ease the atmosphere.

“Here,” Blaine said, pausing when they reached the middle of the path that ran between the inner and outer circles between the two fields that made up the western end of the castle grounds. Kurt looked around—no one was around, and they would be able to see anyone coming long before they could be heard. The perfect place for a private conversation.

“What is it you need to consult me for, my lord?”

“Kurt, stop it,” Blaine said, looking at the ground and shaking his head. Kurt noticed for the first time that Blaine had trimmed his hair—how had he not noticed that last night? “I just wanted to speak to you.”

“I’m sorry, my lord,” Kurt replied, his heart breaking with every word. “I’m certain there is nothing to say.”

“Kurt, please,” Blaine pleaded. “Please listen—I’ve practiced saying this all night so please let me get it out.”

Kurt turned away and held his arms across his middle as though trying to physically hold himself together. All he had to do was wait for the Prince to finish speaking and the he could leave, he could go to the castle and get his things and he could  _go home_ …

“I’m sorry for…forcing myself on you.”

Kurt turned his head sharply and snapped his eyes up to Blaine incredulously.  _What!?_

“I know now that it was foolish of me to hope that you would be able to look past my…my deformities,” Blaine continued. “I should not have pushed knowing that I could only repulse you. And I wish to apologize. I will not cross those boundaries again, and I understand if you wish to return home, but—“

“Stop.”

Blaine looked up at Kurt, and Kurt couldn’t do it. It would have been a good excuse—Kurt could just say nothing, go home, and try to heal from his heartbreak in peace. But he couldn’t look into Blaine’s eyes and let him believe that Kurt saw him as anything but beautiful.

“I am not repulsed by you,” Kurt said, facing Blaine and knowing that there was no turning back and the truth would have to come out.

“I don’t…understand,” Blaine said, blinking away sudden tears. “Why—after you—“

“I just  _can’t_  be your whore, Blaine,” Kurt blurted out, his own tears spilling down his flushed cheeks. “I turned down Sebastian for that, and I never thought I’d have to turn you down too. I may be a peasant and a servant, and not worthy of a man in your position, but I am better than  _that_. I know what it takes to become King. I know you have to marry, and I won’t be shoved into a room with a secret entrance to yours so that I can sneak in and out at night while your wife lays alone down the hall—I won’t give myself to you only to have it taken away when your duty to the kingdom comes—“

“What makes you think I’ll be marrying some woman?”

“And what else would you do? You need an heir, and you have to have a  _queen_  before you can be—”

Blaine was shaking his head, a slow smile growing on his face.

“Kurt, I don’t need to marry a woman to have an heir. And I don’t need a queen.”

Kurt stared and cocked his head. “Wait, what?”

Blaine’s smile took over his whole face now, widening into the breathtaking grin that had so shocked Kurt when it first appeared. “It is perfectly legitimate for a Prince to rule the kingdom. I don’t need to be King—it’s just a title, in the end. And there’s precedent—there have been Princes that ruled without ever marrying before, and they legitimized the throne through a surrogate.”

“But the Lords—“

“—can’t say anything,” Blaine finished. “You don’t know? Lord Nicholas of Westerville is currently in a relationship with a fine young man named Jeffrey. And has been for years without incident. Unless they’re very suddenly against them and against at least three others of the peerage as well that I know of, they will remain silent.”

Kurt was shaking his head in disbelief, hope filling him for the first time. He couldn’t help the smile that broke free from his restraint.

“Blaine, you can’t…you can’t honestly think the people would be okay—“

“Kurt,” Blaine said, taking Kurt’s hands, “I wouldn’t be able to marry you officially; you’re right in assuming the people would accept neither a peasant nor a male as my spouse. We’d have to be content with being as we are. But I would. I would in an instant. And I could never make you into a whore. I meant every word I said last night. I am yours entirely, and I love you now and will do so until the sun turns cold. But the only way I’ll let you walk away now is if you don’t want me.”

Kurt laughed.

“I don’t think the sun is ever going to go cold.”

Blaine smiled, looking into Kurt’s eyes deliberately. “I know it won’t.”

Kurt couldn’t tell if what he let out was another laugh or a sob or some mixture of both, but it ceased to matter as he surged forward, throwing his arms around Blaine’s neck and kissing him for the first time.

Blaine’s mouth was surprisingly soft, his scars only slightly harder slashes across the sweet flesh of his lips. Kurt had wondered what it would feel like, had wondered if it would change things, but he found he didn’t care about the scars one bit as they moved together. He tilted his head, pressing into the kiss more deeply as Blaine wrapped his arms around his waist and pulled him in. He threaded his fingers into Blaine’s curls, shorter now but just as silky, and Kurt briefly wondered if the Prince had cut his hair to make himself look more presentable…just for Kurt.

Had it  _all_  been for him?

“I love you,” Kurt whispered, drawing back just enough to breathe out what he had been holding in for so long—the exhale after what felt like an eternity of inhale. Blaine laughed out of pure delight and pushed back in, pulling Kurt’s bottom lip between his own as best he could through his smile. Kurt moaned and sucked Blaine’s top lip, running his tongue gently over the edge.

Blaine gasped, his mouth falling open, and the reaction made Kurt bold. He slipped his tongue into Blaine’s mouth, a quick slip in before pulling back, unsure if it was okay. But in an instant, Blaine was moving in again, groaning and shoving his tongue into Kurt’s mouth. Kurt surged back, reveling in the new sensation of another mouth against his own.

And then the world was tipping. Blaine’s hands were gently guiding Kurt down onto the ground, and he obeyed their press willingly. He lay back in the long grass, pulling Blaine’s lips with his own, desperate to keep them connected. Blaine knelt over him, one hand rubbing circles into the back of his hip as the other drifted up to grasp the back of his head, tilting it back.

“You are so beautiful, Kurt,” Blaine moaned, moving his mouth to Kurt’s jaw, sucking kisses in a hot line down his neck and to his shoulder. He pulled his hand up from Kurt’s hip and laid it over his collarbone, just above his tunic. “May I?”

Kurt nodded, biting his lip and trying not to thrash beneath Blaine. He’d never felt such desire, and it stirred within him and tightened his groin when Blaine unlaced his shirt and pulled it open and off his shoulders, laying most of his chest bare as the wide opening tapered down to his diaphragm. Blaine lowered himself and kissed the creamy skin that was revealed. Kurt clutched at Blaine’s back, fingers scratching against the stretched leather and reaching as far around as he could with his upper arms restricted by the fabric of his shirt.

Kurt was panting, his head thrown back as his skin was kissed and sucked and bitten. When Blaine drew a taut nipple between his teeth, Kurt gasped, arching his back and keening. Blaine immediately released it and rushed back up to claim Kurt’s mouth again, shifting to lay between Kurt’s legs, which spread on pure instinct as Kurt drowned in sensation.

“You take my breath away,” Kurt sighed, finally unable to stop the writhing of his hips in a desperate search for friction. He found it, feeling what he realized, with a shuddering hiss of breath, was Blaine’s cock, hard and straining against his breeches, pressing against his own.

“Oh, gods,” Blaine swore, rocking his hips down in return, whining when they made contact again. “Gods, Kurt, you feel so  _good_.”

Kurt whimpered and struggled, not against but  _with_  Blaine, hitching his legs around Blaine’s undulating hips and following his movements, climbing together toward a peak that Kurt could feel rapidly approaching.

“Please, Kurt,” Blaine begged, his arms trembling as they held him up. Kurt nodded, shifting his shoulders so that they pulled out of his shirt, the sleeves falling to his forearms and the collar ending up near his navel. With his arms less restricted, he caressed down Blaine’s back, fingers digging into straining muscles, tapering down and then flaring with the swell of his buttocks. Kurt reached and gripped the high, firm muscles, pulling Blaine in hard against him again and again and again.

With one last, forceful thrust up, Kurt tipped over the edge, arching his back, abandoning all control and crying out his release. Blaine’s hips stuttered a few more times and then he was gone too, his muscles clenching in shallow thrusts under Kurt’s still grasping hands, grunting in a continuous string with his mouth open against Kurt’s neck and his eyes clenched shut until, with a final shudder, he collapsed, gently lowering his weight into Kurt’s waiting arms.

“I love you, Blaine,” Kurt whispered, kissing Blaine’s sweaty curls as the Prince tucked his head into the curve between Kurt’s neck and shoulder. He felt Blaine kissing and nuzzling at his slowing pulse as he came down, his breathing evening out and his muscles relaxing down into the dirt with Blaine’s weight pressing him down.

“And I, you,” Blaine murmured, shifting to the side and wrapping both arms and legs around his lover.

They lay twined together for a long time, simply reveling in being close, unmindful of their filthy state. Fingers twisted into hair, breath traveled across skin, and soft kisses landed on the nearest surface until finally the discomfort of laying outside on the hard ground with come drying in their breeches caught up to them. Together they rose, but as Blaine turned to lead them back to the castle, Kurt stalled him.

“What is it, my love?” Blaine asked.

Kurt smiled at the endearment and stepped into Blaine’s arms.

“I was wondering if it might be unwise for the two of us to show up at the castle together in this state. Someone is sure to figure out what happened.”

Blaine looked confused. “Are you…ashamed? Of us? Of me?”

“No,” Kurt said immediately, reaching up to gently trace Blaine’s scars, his fingers wandering over their strangely smooth surfaces, marveling in the way Blaine’s eyes closed under his ministrations. “I could never be ashamed.”

“Then what is it?”

“I merely wonder if it would be prudent to be…discreet,” Kurt replied. “At least for now. Your position will remain unstable until court resumes and things settle, and…I don’t want to be a liability. And we all know how servants gossip.”

Blaine smiled.

“I understand. If you think it’s best, I will of course take your advice,” he said. “However, if anyone asks me, or if we are discovered, I will not attempt to hide you.”

Kurt ducked his head. “I am grateful for that.”

“Well then,” Blaine said mischievously, “if anyone should ask at our disheveled state, I shall merely inform them that I tripped and fell onto you.”

“Yes, again and again,” Kurt laughed, kissing the corner of Blaine’s mouth lingeringly. And at the sudden darkness in Blaine’s eyes, Kurt realized that they’d have to work on their excuses—quickly.


	20. Chapter 19

What Kurt imagined the night of Blaine’s first pledge—what he imagined spending his days with Blaine as a lover—was now happening, and Kurt had never felt such happiness. The next five days passed in similar manners—he woke each morning very early but well-rested, and breakfasted with the servants, sharing gossip and speculating on the future of the castle. Then he returned to his rooms to work a little bit on sewing Blaine’s garment, or he’d practice his lute. He’d started writing for Blaine—little poems and sweet songs, mostly, but he’d begun to work on a longer story, writing down passages that came to him as the day went on. And as the morning wore on toward afternoon, he’d start getting summoned across the castle.

The first time it happened, Brittany showed up in his rooms and informed him that the Prince wanted to ask Kurt to dress up a tree. Kurt had wandered into Blaine’s rooms in a great deal of confusion.

“What’s this about a tree?” Kurt asked, unable to stop the grin that grew on his face when Blaine grabbed both his hands and kissed them.

“I’m sorry?” Blaine mumbled, continuing to lavish affection on Kurt’s hands.

“Brittany told me you wanted me to dress up a tree.”

Blaine looked up at him with a disbelieving look on his face. “A tree?”

“Yes.”

All of a sudden Blaine laughed, dropping his forehead to Kurt’s hands.

“What?”

“I told her—” Blaine began, pausing to chuckle. “Sorry. I told her I wanted to  _confer_  with you on my garment.”

Kurt stared for a minute before shaking his head and huffing. “I don’t understand her.”

“Brittany has been here since childhood,” Blaine said. “Her mother was once the head housekeep. And I believe the position continues back in the family. And while I don’t think she’ll ever hold that position herself, she was always very kind to me as children and has been a loyal and hardworking servant. She is a little…odd. But she is a good woman.”

Kurt smiled. “I believe you. But…she and Santana—“

“I don’t even pretend to know how it happened,” Blaine replied. “But she makes Santana happy, and when Santana is happy it is a great improvement on the rest of the time.”

Kurt laughed.

“So what did you need to know about the garment?”

One of Blaine’s eyebrows rose skeptically.

“Kurt?”

“What?”

Blaine stepped in and wrapped his arms lightly around Kurt’s waist.

“I did not call you here to talk about clothes.”

Kurt gasped unsteadily as Blaine tugged him in, tightening his hold and pressing their bodies flush together. Kurt found he couldn’t move his eyes from Blaine’s lips.

“Then what did you call me here for, my lord?” Kurt teased.

“You know,” Blaine said, giving it right back, “I can’t seem to remember.”

“Well, my lord, let me see if I can jog your memory.”

Kurt leaned in and brushed their lips together very lightly, intent on teasing Blaine further, but Blaine was having none of it. Kurt found himself kissing Blaine heatedly, both of Blaine’s hands cupping his face. They lost themselves in each other then, kissing delightedly for several minutes.

“I cannot seem to keep my hands off of you,” Blaine whispered as Kurt kissed his jaw, sucking on the stubbled skin and teasing it with his tongue. “I feel that this may become a problem.”

“I can see no problem, my lord,” Kurt said, slipping his tongue back into Blaine’s mouth, eliciting a moan from the Prince.

Soon they were clinging to each other, their bodies rocking slowly, bringing them closer and closer to what seemed an inevitable conclusion—and Kurt was grateful because the bed was  _right there_ —

_Knock. Knock._

They sprung apart instantly, frantically smoothing down clothing and hair. The door opened just as Kurt realized that his breeches were entirely failing to hide the hardness that had resulted from his activities with Blaine. He quickly adjusted himself, stepping to conceal himself behind a chair. But judging by Santana’s narrowed eyes and widened smirk, she had seen.

“Sorry to break things up, boys,” she said, “but I need a word with our Prince. Privately.”

She was staring at Kurt—or, rather, where his crotch would be if he moved out from behind the chair. Kurt blushed furiously.

“Certainly, Santana,” Blaine said. “Kurt, we’ll conclude our business this evening. Santana, if you would.”

He swept his hand toward the door invitingly, and Santana scowled. Blaine had just saved Kurt from further embarrassment, and Kurt made sure to make it up to him thoroughly later that evening.

So it went for Kurt’s mornings for the first couple of days, though he and Blaine were careful not to do anything too risky during the day, when it was increasingly likely that they were interrupted by Santana, who, while she had promised Blaine that she would neither inquire further nor spread word of what she had seen, continued to try to catch them doing something and had ceased knocking, which had almost caused injury when, on the fourth day, she barged in while Kurt was drawing Blaine’s stitches. He had just barely stopped himself from jumping while cutting the second stitch, though Blaine hadn’t been able to help himself and had tugged the stitch painfully when he startled.

The rest of the servants were acting strangely, as well, though certainly in a different manner. Puck and Sam, whom he knew had been working on the music room, were no longer seen anywhere near that part of the castle—they had, in fact, taken to disappearing often to Beiste’s practice grounds near the northeast wall of the castle grounds, spending most of their days there and the rest of their time laughing and horsing around in their quarters. All work had stopped on the fields, as well, at least as far as Wes and David were concerned. Kurt had gone to find them one afternoon, determined to learn some more details of Blaine’s childhood for a ballad he was composing, but he had only seen strange men tilling the fields. Mercedes, Tina, and Brittany were almost always scurrying away, too busy to speak to him when he went to interrogate them.

Kurt got the sense that things were being hidden from him, but he couldn’t figure out why. Whenever he tried to wander into certain parts of the castle—the lower Western wing, for example, or the court apartments on the upper Eastern wing—Santana would appear seemingly out of nowhere and order him to go do something inane—he’d often been told to assist Emma by carrying heavy sacks of ingredients from the storerooms in the basement to the kitchen or to go feed the beasts out back. Blaine, as well, often found him and asked him to tend the roses, or go cut a few for his use. On the fifth afternoon he’d even been sent to fetch Mike, who he was told was arriving back at the castle after being away for some business, but he waited by the gate for almost three hours with no sign of him returning.

He’d stormed back to the castle after he’d gotten sick of waiting and immediately burst into Blaine’s rooms, interrupting a hushed conversation between the Prince and his chamberlain, who had been looking at some papers on the table, the room illuminated by the setting sun through windows that were now sparklingly clean. They had both startled, Blaine staring at him wide-eyed while Santana turned to him, hands on her hips and a dark scowl on her face.

“And what the hell is  _your_  problem?” she snapped.

“My  _problem_ ,” he shot back, “is that I just spent three hours sitting around waiting for someone who  _isn’t coming_.”

Blaine looked at him, confused, and then back to Santana.

“What did you have him do?”

“I sent him to wait for Mike,” she replied blandly, turning back to the papers on the table, gathering them up swiftly.

“Mike isn’t scheduled to return for another three days,” Blaine said.

“Oops,” she said, not sounding sorry at all. Kurt was seriously considering leaping forward and ripping out her hair when Blaine spoke again.

“That’s unacceptable,” he scolded her. She raised an eyebrow at him. “Don’t look at me like that. You went too far.”

“Oh, whatever, it worked, didn’t it?” she sniped. “Not like it matters anymore, you’ve gone ahead and blown your own cover, so all our work has been for nothing anyway.”

“You’re excused, Santana,” Blaine said, and the command was implicit. She scoffed and threw her hair, sauntering out without another word.

“What is going on, Blaine?”

Blaine sighed, turning to face Kurt with a guilty look on his face.

“Do you know where Mike has gone?”

Kurt shook his head.

“Everyone just said he was out on business. I figured he was…I don’t know, doing whatever it is he’s done before. Securing materials and such.”

“No,” Blaine said, grabbing both of Kurt’s hands and drawing him to sit on the edge of the bed. “Mike is not securing materials or doing anything like he normally does. He’d have returned by now, as he’s only ever gone to Westerville or Lima anyway.”

“Then where is he?”

“Today? If all has been going according to plan, he should be in Defiance, visiting the Lady Harmony.”

“Why?”

“Because she’s one of the Lords under my ruling,” he said. “He’s making sure she’s aware that she will be expected to render accounts for the past seven years, and that she should send this years’ tithes as soon as she collects them from her people and the lesser nobles. As will the Lords of all the other provinces.”

Kurt’s eyes lit up.

“So it’s official?”

Blaine grinned at him, unable to help himself.

“As soon as all these workers get their damn jobs done, yes,” he said. “They’re taking their time as of this moment, but I’m sure they’ll speed once their payment is at least half paid. I expect court to be in session for the first time on my birthday.”

Kurt practically squealed, throwing his arms around Blaine’s neck and rocking him back with the force of his leap. They laughed into each other’s shoulders until Kurt suddenly pulled back, staring at Blaine with a look that made Blaine shrink back.

“And how stupid do you think I am?”

Blaine winced.

“I am very much aware of your intelligence, Kurt—“

“Apparently not,” Kurt interrupted. “Did you really think I wouldn’t figure it out? And what have the servants thought of keeping it from me? Aren’t they suspicious?”

“Santana informed them you were quite busy with business on my behalf, and they have been perfectly content with not bothering you with anything. And I had hoped to stall you until things were at least a bit more certain,” Blaine explained, “which, I’m glad to say, I accomplished. Those papers you saw Santana handling were the first of the accounts sent to us from Haverbrook. This years’ payments are on their way, and Lord Rumba, while a difficult man to handle in person, has very cooperatively sent me his plan for repaying me, so long as I provide him with written accounts of every session of court.”

Kurt raised an eyebrow at this, but Blaine quickly said, “He is partially deaf, and does not wish to attend court himself. He’ll send a proxy, who will send a messenger back after each major session with updates.”

Kurt nodded and sighed. He looked at Blaine a little nervously, biting his lip as he struggled to get his next thought out properly.

“Blaine,” he said finally, softly caressing Blaine’s hands in his own. “You are aware you won’t be able to wear your hood during court, aren’t you? You’re going to have to let everyone see.”

As he finished speaking, he lifted a hand to cup Blaine’s cheek, his thumb running over his cheek and the ridges of his scars. Blaine smiled ruefully for a moment before lowering his head to peek up at Kurt through his lashes.

“I don’t know about that,” he replied, his smile turning impish. Kurt’s breath caught in his chest. “I think it might add a certain amount of power, if no one can see what I’m thinking on my face.”

“Blaine—“

“I mean…you know what I’m thinking now, don’t you?” he continued, biting his lip and blinking up at Kurt coyly. “Just from the look on my face.”

“You’re trying to distract me.”

Blaine grinned and shrugged, opening his mouth to say what Kurt was sure would be a teasing, charming quip. But he didn’t want to hear it. He bent down and kissed Blaine firmly, their mouths sliding together easily.

Blaine quickly pulled Kurt closer to him, obviously expecting more of what they’d done every night over the past five days—spending long stretches of time kissing, eventually heating up to find them twined together on the bed (or, on one memorable occasion, the table) in various states of undress, rocking against each other (or, on another memorable occasion, into each other’s hands).

However, Kurt had plans. He had been dying to see Blaine completely bare before him as he tried something new, and he intended to accomplish that immediately.

“I wish to show you how truly grateful I am, my lord,” Kurt whispered, nuzzling Blaine’s cheek and laying a lingering kiss on the uneven skin. Blaine shivered and tilted his face, his mouth falling open in a hot gasp.

Kurt’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“Does this feel good?” Kurt asked, planting a kiss very carefully on the largest of Blaine’s scars.

“Yes,” Blaine breathed. “They’re…sensitive. Around the edges especially.”

Kurt hummed, laying Blaine back on the bed and shifting to hover over him, fingers carefully inching lower to lift his shirt and dance over his abdomen. Blaine squirmed, his hips twisting beneath Kurt’s own, his head thrown to the side to allow Kurt access to what he wanted.

He started at Blaine’s jaw, gently running his lips and tongue over the first scar, tracing it from one end to the other before moving on to the next. Blaine laughed when it led Kurt to brush against his eye, but when Kurt licked across the scars going through his lips, or laid a final kiss on the teardrop scar, Blaine arched up into him, leaning to capture Kurt’s mouth.

“I’m not done,” Kurt said, giving Blaine a quick peck to tide him over as he moved down to Blaine’s throat, his lips hovering just above the little nick in front of his Adam’s apple. “May I remove your shirt?”

Blaine did him one better—he sat up, almost unseating Kurt in the process, and removed the shirt himself, tossing it aside carelessly as he lay back and tilted his head again, arms wide, presenting himself. Kurt laughed and leaned down, placing a gentle kiss to the little scar before moving to the knot on the side of his neck.

When he kissed the scar itself, Blaine didn’t react—but when he snuck up to suck under his jaw, just above the scar, Blaine bucked as though he’d been shocked, a quiet, surprised grunt escaping his lips. His breathing grew heavier and he pressed his neck into Kurt’s mouth, silently begging. Kurt obliged, sucking harder and biting down lightly.

“Gods, that feels good,” Blaine groaned, hands grasping at Kurt’s sides. “ _Kurt_ , I—“

Kurt hushed him, slipping down to lick long stripes over the scars on his clavicle, flattening his tongue so that he caught the sensitive edges of the raised flesh, writhing pleasurably when his tongue caught on wiry hair. He moved across them steadily, lavishing each one with attention, ending at Blaine’s shoulder, where he traced the wide circle of the bite scar with wet, sucking kisses, his hands running down Blaine’s upper arms, tracing the muscles as they tensed when Blaine clutched at him.

He moved further down, grinning when he realized he’d reached the long scar that ran clear across Blaine’s chest, starting at his collarbone and ending just next to his left nipple. He started at the bottom, ignoring the pebbled peak in favor of teasing, flicking the tip of his tongue in little kitten licks up the scar, sucking on the bone when he reached the other end.

“Gods, Kurt,” Blaine said, one hand threading into Kurt’s hair as the other continued to run over his back.

The hand in his hair clenched almost painfully as Kurt leaned down and licked the last of Blaine’s old scars, tracing it as it curved just over Blaine’s right nipple. But this time he didn’t neglect after the tease—he drew the nipple into his mouth, sucking on the little nub hard as he trailed his hands down Blaine’s ribs, desperate to feel the way his muscles moved when he arched his back so beautifully, the vibrations of his moans echoing through his bones.

“Kurt,” Blaine begged, “please.”

“Almost done,” Kurt assured, leaning down to very carefully brush his lips against the rapidly healing scars on Blaine’s side, not pressing down or licking, just skimming over them. Blaine was gasping above him, his breath coming in near sobs as Kurt worked lower.

He ended up at the edge of Blaine’s breeches, the laces tickling his chin as he laid a deep kiss to the soft round at the bottom of Blaine’s stomach, running his tongue over the thickened trail of hair that lead down. He looked up at his lover through his lashes as he continued ravishing the skin, his fingers deftly undoing the ties that were straining over the impressively hard bulge currently pushing toward him. As soon as the knots where free and Kurt pulled the flaps of leather aside and down, Blaine’s cock sprung free, glistening with precome, flushed a deep red from prolonged arousal. Kurt licked his lips, and Blaine instantly let out a shaky, overwhelmed breath, hands flying up to rub over his face.

“Oh, gods, Kurt, please tell me you’re going to do what I think you’re going to do.”

“What would that be, my lord?”

Kurt cut off any possible reply by running the flat of his tongue up the underside of Blaine’s cock, feeling every vein rippling against it. Above him, Blaine sounded like he was having trouble breathing, and Kurt smiled when he saw Blaine staring down at him heatedly, his hands fluttering like they didn’t know where to land.

Kurt swirled his tongue around the tip, grasping the base firmly in his hand, and then smiled widely up at Blaine before placing sloppy kisses over the hard length of him.

“I believe you have been deceiving me,” Blaine said, his voice strained. “I believed you as innocent and unlearned as I.”

“You have debauched me, my lord,” Kurt replied, barely holding in a laugh as he continued to tease Blaine as thoroughly as he could with his mouth, his free hand dropping to fondle the delicate skin of Blaine’s balls.

“I do not— _ahh_ —doubt it,” Blaine said, “for you have done the same to me. But truly—where did you learn to do all this, love?”

“You would be surprised at how graphic some bard’s tales are, my sweet Prince. Especially when the bard is telling his tales to a room full of drunken men with nothing else on their minds but the pretty barmaid blushing in the corner.”

With that said, Kurt dove in, enclosing his mouth around the head of Blaine’s cock and sucking. Blaine let out a desperate noise Kurt had never heard from him before and bucked up. Thankfully, he had a firm grip with his hand and lips and merely moved back with the thrust, smirking a little to himself before resuming the task that was quite literally at hand.

After several minutes, Kurt discovered the rhythm that Blaine seemed to enjoy most—that is, the one that sent him falling back onto the bed, his stomach muscles jumping as he fought against the urge to simply fuck into Kurt’s mouth unrestrainedly, his hands fisted in his own hair, his mouth hanging open and letting out periodic cries of pleasure. He bobbed his head heavily, sinking down as far as he could go as quickly as he could manage before slowly dragging back up, hollowing out his cheeks and dragging his tongue up the underside. His hand grasped the base, but Kurt found, as he went on, that he could take more and more, especially when he rocked his head just as he hit the bottom, slipping the heavy weight in his mouth back into his throat for just an instant before he came back up. The first time he managed it without his throat closing in protest, Blaine swore loudly and let out a moan that was nearly a sob, and so Kurt continued to practice this new found skill until Blaine was babbling above him.

“Please—don’t stop, gods—I’m…I’m going to—“

Kurt continued his pattern until the very last second, until he felt Blaine pulsing against his lips. He pulled back just a little too late, stripes of hot come landing on his open lips and trickling down his chin.

“Oh, gods, Kurt, I am so sorry, that’s—I apologize—“

Blaine cut off when he realized Kurt was laughing, leaning his forehead against Blaine’s thigh as he giggled uncontrollably. Blaine stared stupidly, unsure of how to proceed, until Kurt lifted his head, his giggles dying down as he licked his lips clean experimentally, testing out the taste of it on his tongue.

“Kurt—“

Kurt looked up at Blaine again, swallowing the bitterness in his mouth, only to be met with Blaine’s mouth on his, sucking at what Kurt had missed on his initial swipe.

As they kissed feverishly, Blaine gripped Kurt’s shoulders, twisting until Kurt was lying back on the bed with Blaine now hovering above him. His clothes were quickly removed from his sweating skin, and Blaine took the advantage and pressed his own nakedness into Kurt’s side, running his hands over every inch he could reach before gripping Kurt’s leaking cock and stroking assuredly.

“That feels so good, Blaine,” Kurt whispered, leaning his head back and closing his eyes, losing himself in the drag of Blaine’s hands and the feeling of a molten gaze roaming over him.

The pressure was building low in his gut, tightening deep within him, but not enough. His hips stuttered, thrusting his cock into Blaine’s fist, straining toward the edge that felt just out of reach. He cried out in frustration, chasing the moment when could finally tip over the edge into sweet release, coming close several times but never quite making it. Something felt like it was missing.

And then Blaine parted his thighs gently with his free hand, running his fingers up the inside until they met with the soft flesh behind his balls. Blaine stroked it firmly, daring to go further and further back with every stroke, until he brushed between Kurt’s cheeks and over the pucker there. Kurt gasped, his orgasm hitting him like a battering ram, his come spurting out powerfully, streaking up to his collarbone

He must have drifted, because the next thing he knew a warm cloth was running over his body, cleaning him of sweat and come with slow, gentle swipes. He opened his eyes and saw Blaine standing next to the bed, tending him with a loving smile on his face, his eyes caressing Kurt’s body as tenderly as his hands.

Kurt reached out both arms invitingly, smiling up at his Prince. Blaine smiled back and nodded, setting the cloth back in the basin of water before slipping into Kurt’s arms. They turned on their sides, limbs twining together, their chests pressed together as close as they could get as they nuzzled each other’s faces, kissing sweetly and smiling at each other as they basked in the glow.

“I have to go back, soon,” Kurt said quietly after several minutes, regret filling his voice. It was the same every night—they held each other until Kurt felt it was time for him to return to his own rooms, to avoid suspicion.

“No,” Blaine protested, clutching Kurt closer and closing his eyes, as though shutting out the world made it less real. “Stay. Talk to me for a bit. If anyone asks, I kept you late discussing new outfits for court. I’m going to need lots of new clothing, after all.”

“And you expect me to make all of it on top of this special garment I’m making now?”

“Of course not,” Blaine scoffed. “But we’ll tell everyone that. They needn’t know that I’ll be sending off for court-appropriate clothing when some more funds come in.”

Kurt grinned, shaking his head.

“Fine,” Kurt relented, “but only for a little while longer. Staying all night would most certainly raise eyebrows.”

Blaine hummed happily, relaxing into Kurt with a contented smile on his face. Kurt looked upon him, well aware of the besotted expression on his own face, studying Blaine’s face with the greatest bliss.

“You are staring at me.”

Kurt laughed quietly. “That I am.”

“I’m not used to it,” Blaine admitted. “It feels so strange.”

“You should be accustomed to it soon enough,” Kurt said. “I will be doing it every chance you give me.”

“Why do you enjoy it so?” Blaine asked, his smile fading slowly. Kurt frowned. “I know that I am…I am less pleasant to look upon than other—“

“Hush.” Kurt reached up and stroked Blaine’s cheek, tilting his face to make Blaine look at him. He stared into amber eyes intently and said with the greatest conviction, “You are beautiful, Blaine. Everyone has scars. Yours are just…presented to the world immediately. It does not make you hideous. In fact, I find you to be the handsomest man I’ve ever known, and I’ll have you know I have quite discerning tastes.”

Blaine’s eyes shone, filling with tears. “You cannot mean that.”

“I do,” Kurt said truthfully. “I will admit I expected something grotesque from the way you hid, but you are anything but. I would not doubt that should you reveal yourself to the court, everyone would be forced to admit that you surpass even Cooper in terms of beauty.”

“That is not true.”

“It is,” Kurt insisted. “I have seen Cooper, both in person and in portrait, and while he was most certainly one of the most pleasing men to look upon, there was something too…unattainable about him. You are warm, Blaine, and not at all intimidating, at least when you are in a pleasant mood.” Blaine laughed self-deprecatingly at the barb. Kurt smiled fondly. “It is much easier to gaze upon you and I will not be alone in that assessment.”

As a few tears escaped Blaine’s eyes, falling down his face in shining trails, Kurt leaned forward and kissed them away, tasting the salt on his tongue as he drew back, only to kiss Blaine passionately, hoping to still the trembling of his lips. Blaine melted into him, his whole body shivering. Kurt hushed him, stroking him comfortingly.

“You cannot know how much that means to me, Kurt,” Blaine whispered, his voice rough. He looked at Kurt earnestly. “I love you, so very much.”

“And I love you,” Kurt whispered back. “I think you judge yourself too harshly, Blaine. People will see that you are just as human as they are, I know it.”

Blaine sighed. “You must know that that is not the only reason I hide, don’t you? It is not all vanity.”

Kurt heard the pleading in Blaine’s tone, the beg for understanding. He looked at Blaine frankly and asked, “Why else did you hide?”

Blaine took a moment before responding.

“I have no training for this,” he said, “and after Cooper’s death…I had to heal, and I had to learn, but I had no one to teach me. So I hid away and tried to figure it out, but by the time I was recovered and educated it was too late—everyone had abandoned me, abandoned the court. And everyone was saying that I was cursed, or that I had killed Cooper…no one knew, no one wanted to know. And I couldn’t—I was still a child, I didn’t know how to fix it, I had no—“

“Shh, I understand,” Kurt interrupted, soothing Blaine again with the touch of his hands and lips. “I’m so sorry you had to face that, Blaine. I’m sorry people were not more patient. I’m sorry you were alone. If I could go back and tell my younger self to find you and help you through it, I would—I ache to think of you facing that by yourself.”

“I would like that,” Blaine said, smiling sadly, “if only because I would have years longer with you, and perhaps I would not have been such an ass about everything.”

“I understand now, though. You’ve spent so long with no one to confide in and no one to see what’s really within you—what’s beneath your scars. In fact, I am so immensely proud of you for being strong enough to face this, to face me. I know I was not easy on you either.”

Blaine’s smile was radiant, and happiness suffused his face. Suddenly, he laughed.

“It’s behind us, now,” Blaine declared, kissing over Kurt’s face, tipping him onto his back and laying over him, ravishing him playfully as Kurt laughed. “Now you are forever doomed to have me begging at your feet for affection. You have quite ruined my stoic exterior, Master Hummel.”

“I do not doubt that you can maintain it whilst outside these walls, your majesty,” Kurt replied saucily, “though I will do my best to make it difficult for you.”

Blaine drew in a sharp breath, looking down at Kurt in wonder.

“Majesty?”

Kurt looked back up at him, puzzled.

“Of course,” Kurt said. “Soon you will be returned to court, ruling over your people once again. I believe it’s proper to call one’s sovereign Majesty or Highness, is it not?”

Blaine shook his head, huffing out a disbelieving breath.

“It is,” he said, falling onto his back and staring up at the ceiling. “I just…it did not seem real until just then.”

Kurt shifted, tucking himself into Blaine’s side, laying his head on Blaine’s chest, his fingers toying with the wiry hairs there. He laid a quick kiss to the nearest scar.

“It is real, Blaine,” he whispered. “It is real.”


	21. Chapter 20

The next morning, after very little sleep in a bed left too cold when Kurt returned to his own rooms, Blaine immediately called for Santana to ask for a progress report.

“We’ve received a message from Lord Ryan of Westvale,” she said, shuffling several letters back and forth as she looked over them. “He’s withholding his money until court resumes—according to his letter he’s withholding judgment on who he should support for the crown. Basically, the little twit is trying to get something out of it; he mentions something about a seat on your privy council. Do you even have a privy council?”

“Not yet. Tell him that council seats will be offered to those willing to show the crown their loyalty and cooperation,” Blaine said, shaking his head at the letter as he browsed through it, aggravated by the pompous expectation of special treatment that Lord Ryan had barely bothered to contain. “If I remember correctly, Lord Ryan is particularly competitive, isn’t he?”

“I’ll say,” Santana corroborated. “The idiot’s been injured before trying to best his huntsmen and trainers. If rumors are true, he’s got a nice burn scar on his forearm from trying to outdo a juggler who was working with fire at the time.”

_Everyone has scars…_

“Then let him know he’ll be most welcome at court when it resumes, and we’ll be sure to save him an apartment near that of Lord Rumba, with whom I believe he is closely acquainted.”

“You mean they hate each other,” Santana corrected. “Besides, Rumba’s not coming to court.”

“Ryan doesn’t need to know that.”

Something clicked with Santana and she looked distinctly impressed.

“You want Ryan to think Rumba’s in favor with you, and by now word of Rumba’s support will have reached the other Lords.”

“That’s the idea.”

Santana smirked and nodded. “That’s sufficiently nasty of you, Blaine. I approve. When did you get so good at manipulating big-headed morons?”

“I seem to have a knack,” Blaine said, smiling and shrugging. He didn’t think it appropriate to mention that he’d grown up with a lot of big heads around him. “We’ll see if it works. What else have you got there?”

“Well, you should know we have a very tired stable boy passed out in one of the spare rooms in the servants’ quarters,” she said, plucking three pages of parchment that had been folded together out of the pile and handing it to Blaine. “He rode all through the night to get here as soon as possible. From Defiance.”

“Defiance?” Blaine blurted. “But Mike would’ve only gotten there yesterday—“

“You’re going to want to read the letter.”

Blaine sat down and started reading. He felt Santana watching him closely as his face drew down with every line. When he finished, he laid the pages down and ran a hand over his face, feeling very tired.

“That was an interesting letter,” he said finally, sighing.

“That’s one way of putting it,” Santana smirked. “She’s certainly got a lot to say, doesn’t she?”

Blaine nodded, picking up the letter again and going back and forth between the pages as though looking for something.

“I can’t believe this,” he mumbled. “She’s willing to pay half now.  _Half_. That’s a great deal of coin to just…give away. She must have been saving an awful lot.”

“Of course she is. How else is she going to get a husband?”

Blaine felt his face blanch, his blood running suddenly cold.

“She just sent me her dowry.”

Santana looked as though she were very much trying not to laugh. Blaine glared.

“She’s trying to gain my favor so that…so that I’ll  _marry her_?”

“Seems like it from the letter,” Santana said, shrugging carelessly. “She spent an awful lot of time convincing you of her many merits."

“Did the stable boy have anything else?”

“He did,” Santana replied. “He has word of a guarded cart coming to us. It’s due later this evening.”

“And what is in this cart?”

“Lady Harmony’s payment.”

Blaine dropped the letter.

“She sent it already?”

Santana cocked her head at him.

“Do you really think that she’s going to waste any time?” Santana asked, suddenly not looking amused. “Blaine, you’re the Prince. And you’re completely eligible for marriage.”

“Santana, I know that you know—“

“You’re not really, I know,” she said, waving him off. “But it’s not like you can tell Harmony that. Or any of the other ladies who are going to be doing their best to catch your eye for the  _rest of your life_.”

“But…once they see me—“

“It’s not going to matter, Blaine. Let’s face it; most of these women would marry a toad if it got them a crown. I’m pretty sure you looking like you got kissed by a harrow isn’t going to stop most of them. Unless he got you below the belt, then we’ll have a problem, but judging by the smug look on Hummel’s face at all hours of the day, I’d say we’re safe.”

“Santana—“

“Look, we don’t have to talk about it now, but you’re going to have to face  _that_  problem sooner or later,” she continued, ignoring his attempt to speak. “If you’re determined not to take a wife, you’re going to have to deal with a lot of fallout, especially if they find out that it's in favor of not only a man, but a  _servant_. I’d suggest not making your intentions known for a while.”

“I’ve already discussed it with Kurt,” Blaine admitted. “We’re keeping things quiet for the time being.”

“You’re doing a shit job,” Santana snapped. “You think people won’t notice eventually? He comes back from your rooms in the middle of the night looking like he’s been through a windstorm, he’s got marks on his neck that aren’t covered up by his clothes, and eventually someone is going to hear you if they come wandering by some evening. And even if you manage to keep it a secret from the workers and the servants, what about when court starts? What if one of the nobles sees Kurt sneaking around and starts asking questions? Or what if one of them takes a liking to him and asks for a private session? Will you be able to hold your tongue while you listen to that? Because you’re damn sure people are going to notice him. And when they notice him, eventually they’ll start noticing other things, too.”

“So, what?” Blaine asked angrily, turning on her furiously. “You want me to end it? You want me to stop seeing Kurt?”

“No,” she replied. “I want you to be careful. And come up with a better system for your little meetings. Either get smart about how often you summon him, or tell your servants the truth and ask for their cooperation.”

Blaine looked at her in surprise.

“You think they’d help?”

“I know they would,” she said confidently. “Blaine, these people didn’t stick around because you’re fun to be around. Most of us stuck around because we’ve known you most of our lives and we couldn’t stand to abandon you when you needed us. I’ll never admit this again, so listen closely—we love you. We want you as our Prince and you have our support no matter what you do. If that means you want to be with the man you love instead of marrying some inbred half-wit noblewoman, then we’ll do everything we can to make it easier for you. And besides, it’s not like we don’t know who’s really responsible for you stepping up anyway, so we’re willing to do an awful lot to make Kurt happy too. You saw how quickly everyone jumped in to start the music room.”

Blaine considered, running through the outcomes in his head.

“I’ll have to talk to Kurt about it,” he said eventually, “and I’ll still have to come up with a way to be more discreet—“

He paused, his eyes glazing and narrowing. He was silent for several moments, and Santana craned her neck to try to catch his eye.

“What is it? You look like you just realized exactly how your cock is going to fit in Kurt’s ass—“

“Is that really necessary?” Blaine snapped, coming out of his brief reverie. “What I do with Kurt is none of your business.”

“Oh, calm down, I’m not serious,” she said dismissively. “Anyway, where did you go?”

“I have an idea,” he replied. “How far along are the royal apartments?”

“Cleaned and repaired, though the furnishings and decorations still need to be replaced.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Blaine said quickly, “just tell me if it’s feasible that someone would move into them.”

“You want to move Kurt into the royal apartments.”

“Technically, yes.”

“You want Kurt to move in here and  _pretend_  to live in the royal apartments.”

“Yes.”

“And how is that going to be discreet?”

“I’ll just say he’s working on several projects for me,” Blaine explained, his eyes wide with excitement. “I don’t want him disturbed and I want him to have all the privacy and peace he needs. Bards often go on retreats, don’t they? To make up stories and songs without anyone to hear them and steal them?”

“Yeah, I guess, but it’s a risk, you—“

“It’s less of a risk than Kurt slipping back and forth across the castle. And it’s plausible—I’m sure I can find accounts of minstrels being offered lavish accommodations and being treated extravagantly. It makes sense—no one wants to anger someone who can tell embarrassing stories about you.”

“Generally speaking, idiot, part of that special treatment was in the form of sexual favors.”

“Well, that doesn’t have to be implicit,” Blaine said. “As long as no one catches us doing anything unseemly, they can’t say anything about it. My rooms are completely private, and his will be too. So no one will have any business seeing anything unseemly to begin with.” He nodded enthusiastically. “Make sure the closest room has a bed, so people don’t have an excuse to ask questions. I’ll tell Kurt tonight.”

“You realize you basically just gave me orders to ensure you can get laid, right?”

“It’s more than that, Santana,” Blaine said, sobering. “Is it like that for you and Brittany?”

Santana glared at him.

“What I do with Brittany is none of your—“

“—business, yes,” Blaine finished. “Just like with me and Kurt. I just want to be close to him in any way I can. If that means I have to do something unorthodox, so be it. If that means I have to ask for your help, so be it. If it means that I have to reveal myself to the entire kingdom, so damn well be it, and the same if I have to give the kingdom up.”

Santana looked at him for a long moment, longer than Blaine was strictly comfortable with, her face very blank. Finally, she nodded once, sharply.

“Fine.”

 Blaine smiled at her and turns back to the paperwork.

“So what else have we got?”

That night, Blaine finished his dinner quickly, completely unable to hold back any longer. He waved away Wes, who had taken up the duties of steward with Mike absent and turned to Kurt, flicking back his hood.

“Are you at least going to show yourself to the servants soon?” Kurt asked casually. There was no pushing in the question—just curiosity. Blaine smiled at him adoringly. “I know you can’t walk around hoodless all the time, what with all these outside workers coming in every day, but can you at least show the ones who stayed with you?”

“Probably,” Blaine replied easily. “I don’t think I should make a big deal of it if I do, though. What do you think would happen if I just started walking around without my hood?”

“I think you’d cause an uproar,” Kurt shot back. “Quietly, though. I’m sure most would just gasp and run away to tell everyone else that they saw the Prince.”

“You don’t think they’ll be afraid of me?”

Kurt laid down his lute and approached the table, leaning down to cup Blaine’s cheek and lay a kiss on his forehead.

“No,” he answered definitely. “They won’t be scared of how you look. They might be afraid you’re going to yell at them, though.”

Blaine hung his head and laughed self-deprecatingly.

“I have a reputation I’ll need to work off.”

“Well, if you act like you, instead of the Beast Prince you decided to portray for seven years, they’ll love you. I would know.”

Blaine looked up at him with shining eyes, a trembling smile meeting the sweet one on Kurt’s face.

“I love you.”

“Mmm. And I you.”

Kurt leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on Blaine’s mouth. Blaine grinned. It was time.

“I’d like you to come with me.”

Kurt raised an eyebrow, a saucy smirk crossing his face.

“Oh? Impatient, are we?”

Blaine winked up at him.

“Always. But I have something I really do have something I need to show you.”

Blaine rose and guided Kurt from the dining hall, but when they reached the court, he stopped Kurt and looked around carefully. No one was around.

“I want you to close your eyes,” Blaine ordered. Kurt looked at him incredulously.

“I’m serious,” Blaine insisted, and Kurt sighed as though put-upon and closed his eyes with a smile.

Blaine immediately slipped an arm around Kurt’s shoulders and helped guide him ahead. He didn’t bother taking Kurt out of his way—he was too eager to get to the point. So when they reached the door to the court apartment, Blaine immediately paused Kurt and reached forward to swing in the door.

“Here we are,” he said, pushing Kurt through gently. “Open your eyes.”

Blaine resisted the urge to look around the room with Kurt and instead kept his eyes on his lover, taking in the way his eyes widened and his mouth fell open into smile. Kurt looked absolutely stunning—Blaine wanted to remember every moment of it.

 _You can always see it again,_  he thought suddenly.

He could. There were many ways to put that look back on his face—that wonder, that excitement, that happy surprise. There were a hundred things about the castle Kurt would love to see restored, and then endless gifts Blaine could bestow upon him. There would be no end to the things he could do for Kurt now—he’d never have to go another day without it again, if he chose. He could give Kurt the  _world_ , because Kurt  _was_  his world. He didn’t need the other one.

 _In time_ , he decided.  _There’s no rush. Not with our lives ahead of us._

That thought put a warm smile on Blaine’s face, and he watched Kurt wandering about the room, running his hands over the simple wooden bedframe and scuffing his boots along the clean, gleaming floor.

“It’s wonderful,” Kurt said. “I mean…it needs to be decorated, and furnished a little better, but it’s amazing, Blaine. Did Brittany and Mercedes and Tina do all this?”

“Well, not the hard repairs,” Blaine responded. “But yes, they cleaned it up. Do you like it?”

“Of course I do, Blaine,” Kurt said. “It’s—it’s—“

“It’s yours.”

Blaine could have convinced himself he would never stop smiling in the moment that Kurt processed what he said. The sweet look of pleased shock flitted over his features again.

“Mine?” he asked, and then his face fell. “But…but what will the others say? I mean…I’m still a servant, and they don’t know—“

“They will soon,” Blaine said. “It won’t be made public knowledge—and as much as I hate that I have to hide our love for even a second, this will have to last a while. But the servants, the ones who never left here…they’ll be told, eventually. The rest will be told that the official statement is that you are busy working on my orders and require privacy, with the gossip noting that I’m only doing it to keep you on my good side for when you start telling tales of me at court.”

Kurt’s eyes brimmed with tears that didn’t fall, and his lip quivered just a bit.

“You want to tell them about me?”

Blaine sighed and shook his head fondly.

“Of course I do,” he insisted, pulling Kurt into his arms and kissing his forehead lightly. “I want everyone to know why I’m so happy. And having the one who makes me happy in the next room will be a bonus—their cooperation in explaining everything to the workers will be invaluable. I just have to find the right time.”

He took a fortifying breath for the next thing he wanted to say—he hoped Kurt wouldn’t take it the wrong way.

“Of course…it could only be your room in name, and in function for holding your things,” Blaine said, careful to sound like the suggestion was casual. “I would be—the most happy, if I could offer you an alternative place to sleep at night.”

Kurt looked up at Blaine hopefully, and Blaine fought back a grin.

“You mean—“

“—I want you to stay with me,” he clarified. “I don’t want you running off to sleep somewhere else. I want you to stay with me so that when I wake it will be you I wake to and not a cold and empty pillow.”

Kurt kissed him, holding him close.

“Of course I will,” he said, his voice a little choked. “Blaine, that you went to all this trouble just so we could stay together—“

“Of course I did. I would do anything if it meant never having to let you go.”

“…Anything?”

Blaine looked right at Kurt with what he hoped was stern inquisition, but he was sure he still just looked besotted.

“What is it?”

“Well,” Kurt said, looking off to the side and tilting his head, as though to give Blaine his most appealing angle and distract him from what was sure to be something Blaine didn’t necessarily like, “if people are going to believe I live in here, it can’t look like a cell.”

Blaine burst out laughing, realizing what Kurt was angling for.

“The room will be furnished to your every desire, my love,” he chuckled. “In fact, if there is  _anything_  you want or need, make a list and I will make sure you receive everything you ask for.”

“Everything I ask for could get expensive, Blaine,” Kurt warned. Blaine shrugged.

“Buying you things you need or enjoy is hardly a trial for me,” he said simply. “I will have plenty of money soon enough.”

Kurt bit his lip and Blaine could sense his excitement in the way he raised his shoulders and grinned, seemingly inches away from losing restraint and skipping away. Blaine prevented this possibility by leaning down and slotting their lips together, tilting his head and welcoming Kurt’s breath and passion.

Kurt pulled away after a moment, biting his lip before looking into Blaine’s eyes and saying simply, “I need to test my new bed.”

Blaine failed to hold back a groan as he lifted Kurt clear off his feet and carried him across the room to do exactly that.


	22. Chapter 21

Days continued to pass at the castle in a flurry of activity. Every day Blaine was receiving letters, not only from the Lords who were contacted by Mike, but from lesser nobles across the land who were inquiring about court and the possibility of attending. Blaine had to accept the real possibility that the court apartments—which were intended for the Lords when they visited but were used by others as the occasion called for it—were not going to be enough when court first opened. Too many people of import were interested in attending, and there simply wasn’t room for all of the ones who insisted they deserved a place in the castle, leading Blaine to send a letter to Lord Nicholas essentially begging for his hospitality in Westerville for the remainder. This was not to mention the many who did  _not_  have the position to demand lodgings and would stay in Westerville, usually renting houses or encroaching on the hospitality of local families of the peerage. Even Lima might be used for accommodations, and Blaine wondered how Sebastian would take  _that_.

He was also receiving a lot of paperwork regarding the work on the castle. He’d given most of the responsibility of overseeing the work to Santana, whose duty it was as Chamberlain to run the castle and its workers, but she’d apparently seen fit to give one of the workers the job of Foreman, and he’d been doing a good job of submitting plenty of requests for materials and men and funds when he wasn’t trying to woo Emma, who was quite flustered by the whole ordeal and apparently the center of gossip for the castle at the moment.

The castle was starting to take form. There were a lot of men who would stay—workers tending the fields, gardeners, guards and the like—but there were many who would not, and they were massing about the castle building and repairing. Soon enough, everything would be done, and fine craftsmen would be brought in to repair artwork and replace it as necessary, paint things and decorate them and bring the castle back to its former glory.

It was all costing a fortune, but Mike—and the Lords—had come through.

It was the day after Mike returned from his trip. When he’d arrived the night before, Blaine had sent him straight to Tina, and told him to report the next evening—he’d come straight from Westerville, and needed the rest. But he’d stopped and at least given Blaine a long and enthusiastic letter from Lord Nicholas, who had promised every bit of support he could muster for Blaine, whether it be lodgings for nobles or support at court or funds for the castle.

He had also saved every last bit of money he hadn’t needed to send since he’d become Lord five years prior, and he sent that, the current year’s, and the two years his father before him hadn’t sent as well.

Eight years’ tithes. It was a fortune. It was everything Blaine needed to pay the workers and craftsmen and provide for the castle without having to trade away what they made themselves. The road ahead became much clearer with just that one letter.

It wasn’t the only news Mike had brought, but Blaine had waited till Mike had rested to hear it. After supper, and after he asked Kurt to give him half an hour before he came to bed, he summoned Mike into his rooms and sat by the fire, his manservant standing before him. Mike cleared his throat, shifting from foot to foot. Blaine looked up at him, noticing the bags under his eyes and the slope of his shoulders.

“Sit down, Mike, for gods’ sake,” Blaine ordered, and Mike sank gratefully into the other chair, basking in the warmth of the evening fire. “You deserve some time off for all that you’ve done, but I’m afraid there’s much to be done, and for that I am sorry.”

“It’s nothing, Blaine,” Mike said, and Blaine was grateful that he wasn’t trying to be overly formal now. Not after everything Mike had done for him. “You know that I believe wholeheartedly in everything you’re doing, and I’d make any sacrifice to see it happen.”

“Well, I won’t require too much of you,” Blaine replied, “but you and Santana are in charge. She’ll take care of most of it—but I’ll need you to keep ordering my personal affairs, helping out what  _I_  need to do. I’ll keep it to a minimum, I promise, and after everything is done I’ll make sure you get some time to take Tina away for a while. Maybe to see your parents?”

“We’ll see,” Mike shrugged. “If so, it won’t be for a while—like you said, there’s a lot to do. And I think it’s about time we got started. I’ll be better after I sleep tonight, but this can’t wait anymore.”

“Very well. What is it?”

Mike sighed deeply and looked over at Blaine frankly.

“You read over my reports from the Lords?”

“I did,” Blaine said. “I also received a few personal letters that didn’t come through you—namely, Lords Rumba and Ryan, and the Lady Harmony. But I’ve read over Nick’s letter, and I browsed Lord James’s letter. How did he seem?”

“Jesse?” Mike clarified, and at Blaine’s nod, said, “He’s the same as he’s always been. He kept it well hidden, but I’m fairly certain he’s relieved you’re taking over. He and Lord Smythe have been at odds for a long time, and I think he was worried Sebastian would want to give him a hard time if he stepped up.”

“And he sent this years’ payment, am I correct?”

“Yes,” Mike corroborated, “and he said he’d be willing to discuss things more in person when he attends court. He intends to be there immediately upon its restoration.”

“Good,” Blaine said. “He’s influential—I could use his support. We’ll work with him. You read over the other letters and spoke to Santana about the other Lords, right?”

“I did,” Mike agreed. “And I have to say, Blaine, I’m really impressed with how you handled Lord Ryan. That was…very diplomatic of you.”

“What, pitting him against Lord Rumba?”

“Well, yes, that. But I meant how you went about it. It was…adroitly handled. I’m sure it will be a most successful maneuver.”

“Yes, it seems I have a knack for politics.”

“I’m not surprised,” Mike said, shrugging. “You were always good with people, Blaine. You’re good at pleasing them, but you know how to get what you want, too. That’s something Cooper didn’t have—he didn’t know how to keep people happy when they didn’t agree. He was too…headstrong. Selfish. You’re far better suited to the intricacies of court that lie outside being gracious and charming. Though you accomplish those things as well.”

Blaine smiled over at Mike, a little sadly. “You think so?”

“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it, Blaine,” Mike said, and they shared a quick smile before they both gathered themselves again, returning to servant and master rather than two friends.

“I have some urgent news, though, Blaine, and that’s what I wanted to talk to you about tonight,” Mike said. “It’s…it’s very important that you take it seriously and plan accordingly.”

“What is it?” Blaine pressed, a cold feeling sinking in his chest.

“It’s Sebastian,” Mike said. “I…I heard some rumors. And they came from Lord Nicholas himself. His servant, Thad, was in town and spoke with Sebastian’s first lieutenant. Plied him with a few drinks as well, from what I understand. And the lieutenant—I believe his name is Flint—was quite adamant that Sebastian would be taking the throne no matter what. Even after all you’ve done to show you mean to take back the throne.”

“You trust Thad?”

“I do,” Mike said, nodding. “He’s a stoic sort—not the type to tell tales. And the first lieutenant would know.”

Blaine nodded, absorbing the information.

“What sort of force does Sebastian have?”

“The Lima regiment is the second-largest in the kingdom when at full-force. About a thousand men. I believe Sebastian has called up all his regulars, around five-hundred men, and has so far been pulling as many able-bodied irregulars as he can from the farms and dock villages.”

“So he’ll have between five hundred and a thousand men,” Blaine murmured, “and he’ll have slowed commerce and food production for his province to do so. Needlessly—how many men can we get for the defense?”

“Lord Nicholas mentioned his regiment in the letter—seven hundred active men, and a total of fifteen hundred if all irregulars report. It would halt almost all trade in the kingdom if he did it—Westerville is our main hub. But I’m sure Lord James could help as well, he’s nearby. Maybe three hundred from him.”

“I could also ask Lady Harmony. She’s got plenty of regulars and is eager for my favor.”

“I heard,” Mike said wryly. “But it seems we can outnumber Sebastian on good notice. All word is that he plans to attack on your birthday.”

“Send requests to have as many men as possible ready to march if needed,” Blaine ordered. “The Lords will protect their own hides at least—they’ll all be here for my birthday. And we have enough guards now. Make sure the practice grounds are ready for whoever wants to use them, and let everyone know it will be beneficial to their own well-being if they can at least wield a knife or a sword, should the need arise.”

“Beiste will be pleased.”

“She’ll be even more pleased when she hears that I’ll be coming to train with her personally starting tomorrow. And…and I should bring Kurt as well. Sebastian won’t be likely to treat him kindly, and above all else, I want to keep him safe.”

“You…you know what occurred between him and Sebastian, don’t you?”

Blaine looked over and nodded. “And you?”

Mike nodded also. “Burt was trading wares in Westerville when I was there. He…filled me in, to an extent, in between giving me messages to take to Kurt. Sebastian has been inquiring about him—Burt’s told his soldiers that Kurt’s lain up in bed, ill, but Sebastian won’t buy it much longer. He’s already questioning things—the lieutenant was asking questions about Kurt. I’m not sure how he’ll react—from what Burt told me he was quite insistent that Kurt...enter his household. And if Sebastian finds out he’s here, he might…he might take offense to that.”

“Yes, he’s always been that way,” Blaine said. “Never wanted to share his toys. Things like that. Do you think he’d take it out on Kurt’s family?”

“It’s a possibility.”

“Send Puck with four other guards to keep an eye on them.” Blaine rose and headed to his desk, pulling out a sheet of parchment and grabbing his quill, immediately scribbling across the paper as he spoke. “I trust Puck to act as he sees fit in keeping them safe. Gods know what Kurt would do if his family were in danger.”

“I’ll send him out tomorrow morning,” Mike said. “Anything else?”

“Yes,” Blaine said, drawing out the word as he finished writing and signed the paper with a flourish. He blew on the ink to dry it and laid it out. “I need you to have this sent to Lord Nicholas—and be discreet. He’ll have plenty of messages sent to him soon enough, with the requests for troops and the other letters I need sent to him. Hide this among them, and make sure it’s read by no one but him. Send someone you trust with it.”

Mike pulled it toward him and glanced over it. His eyes widened.

“Do you think it will come to that?”

“I can’t be too careful,” Blaine said, shaking his head. “I can’t…I can’t let anything happen—"

There was a light knock on his door, and Mike nodded.

“I understand,” he said. “I’ll make sure everything gets done, Blaine.”

He went to the door to open it, but Blaine stalled him.

“Before you go,” he said, his voice low and quick as he glanced nervously at the door, “I need you to gather the servants—only the ones that have stayed with me all this time. Have them meet with me in the court tomorrow morning. I wish to speak with them.”

Mike nodded, smiling, before pulling open the door. Kurt was standing behind it, and his eyes immediately flicked to Blaine the moment they were in view of each other. He smiled shyly before turning to Mike, but his eyes kept flickering back over as he greeted his friend and slipped into the room.

“Come here,” Blaine said as the door shut, Mike heading out to fulfill his duties and get some rest. “I missed you.”

“You don’t have to miss me anymore,” Kurt grinned, a sweet lilt of delighted laughter in his voice that drew out a wide smile on Blaine’s own face. “I live right next door—didn’t you know?”

“No you don’t,” Blaine whispered, nestling into Kurt’s waiting arms, and a warm sensation spread through him as he realized how familiar the embrace was, how much it felt like home. “You’re staying right here.”

Kurt hummed like he always did when he was happy and kissed Blaine eagerly, gently guiding him back toward the bed.

 “Whatever your majesty commands.”

 

 

The next morning, Kurt drifted awake slowly, emerging from a long, restful sleep. He slowly became aware of his surroundings—the soft bed beneath his chest, the warm coverings around his waist, the scent of Blaine in the pillow he buried his face in, and the warm, wet sensation of Blaine’s lips across his shoulders. He turned his head to the side, hugging the pillow to his cheek and tensing as he stretched, raising his shoulders up for a long moment before relaxing completely, moaning as Blaine’s strong hands worked over his back, rubbing his sleep-warm skin before following the trail with his mouth. Kurt made to turn over, but Blaine held him down and hushed him.

 

“Let me take care of you this morning,” Blaine whispered, and Kurt felt him shuffle closer along Kurt’s side, and his hardness brushed against Kurt’s hip. Kurt grinned and wriggled his hips, pressing his own morning erection down into the bed with a satisfied sigh. He melted down drowsily, his silence an allowance for Blaine to continue as he was. 

Soon enough, everything above the covers was peppered with kisses, from his arms and shoulders to the dip of his waist, and Blaine drew the back of one hand down Kurt’s spine, causing him to arch with the tingling sensation that followed it. And the sparks of electricity only grew as the blanket covering him was slowly drawn down, inch by inch exposing his lower back until it slipped over the swell of his bottom, the naked skin shivering with a layer of goosebumps in the morning chill, the fine hairs there lifting as though straining toward Blaine, aching for sensation. Blaine leaned down and spread his warm hands over the tight skin, breathing hot as he nosed down the smooth dips and curves, brushing them with lips and tongue.

“Mmmm,” Kurt hummed, burying his face in the pillow and lifting his hips back, silently begging for more.

“I never thought I’d get to have this,” Blaine murmured, sliding lower and lower, drawing the covers over Kurt’s thighs and the back of his knees, exposing him and lavishing him with affection inch by inch. Kurt lifted on his elbows and looked back, sadness filling him.

“Oh, Blaine—“

“Shh.” Blaine soothed Kurt with long strokes of his wide palms from his thighs down to his calves, kissing the ticklish skin behind his knees to make him laugh. “I want you to know that I never dreamed I could have someone—someone who was  _mine_. Even before my scars, I thought I would have to spend my life alone, or with someone who only wanted me for my power. I was always…unwanted. So having someone who wants me—who  _loves_ me—“

His voice broke, and Kurt ached to turn around and pull him into his arms, but Blaine held him down, his hands wrapping around Kurt’s hips, his lips landing on the small of Kurt’s back, grazing him as he continued talking, his voice just barely shaking.

“You are every dream I’ve ever had made real, Kurt,” he said. “From the first time I heard your name, I was… _mesmerized_. And it is my greatest honor and delight to have earned your friendship and your love. And you’ve made me…I feel like the man I should be with you beside me.”

He slid up Kurt’s body and tilted his head sideways, kissing him deeply. Kurt felt completely surrounded, not just by Blaine’s body draped over him, his arms holding him close as he plundered Kurt’s mouth, but by everything he was—his sweetness, his bravery, his gratitude, his wonder, and his love. Kurt wanted so much to tell Blaine that he felt the same way; that he never expected to have someone who would understand him so completely, who would love him and care for him and take pleasure in his company as well as his body.

But Blaine wasn’t done. He pulled away, moving his mouth down Kurt’s neck and shoulders again, a little rougher, a little dirtier, his teeth nipping at the skin and drawing blood to the surface, making Kurt ache and tingle and  _want_.

“One day, soon,” he said, and his voice was lower, coarser, “I hope that you will let us be one. I want to make love to you, Kurt.”

Kurt gasped as Blaine’s hands caressed down, pulling his cheeks just a little apart as Blaine’s mouth slowly traveled down his spine again. He rutted against the bed, sharp spikes of pleasure and anticipation shooting through him. Now? Was Blaine going to…now?

“Not today,” Blaine clarified, kissing lower and lower, his hands spreading him further so he could kiss down. “But for now, I want to worship every—“  _kiss_  “—single—“  _kiss_  “— _inch_ of you.”

The next kiss landed on Kurt’s hole, and he moaned loudly, pushing back toward Blaine’s mouth. Blaine chuckled darkly as Kurt buried his face in the pillow, spreading his legs wantonly as he waited for what would come next.

And then Blaine’s tongue was on him, licking a long line from perineum to sacrum. And again. And again. And every time he passed over the sensitive center, Kurt’s hips bucked uncontrollably, little cries escaping his mouth and muffling into the pillow. He felt like he was ready to tear apart, just waiting for that split second when Blaine gave him what he needed. The rest of the time was a tease, but he couldn’t find the words to beg.

And then his sweet Blaine  _appeared_  to take pity on his desperation. His tongue was right where he needed it, flicking and swirling and sucking and probing him, wet and hot and alternating hard and soft and  _everywhere_  at once until Kurt was convulsing, completely unable to move away from Blaine’s mouth, but unable to peak from the erratic ministrations. Every time he could have found a rhythm and worked his way to completion, Blaine switched up, and his cock remained untouched beneath him save for where it skimmed the bed. It was frustrating to the last, and Kurt bit down on the pillow to stop from getting too loud, too frantic.

Blaine must have sensed his need, because suddenly his strong hands were flipping Kurt over and Blaine was kneeling next to and above him, kissing his lips and cheeks and eyelids and nose, drowning him in kisses. And then Blaine lifted his hand and stroked Kurt’s lips with a finger, and Kurt immediately sucked it between his lips, laving it with his tongue suggestively. Blaine’s breath stuttered, but he removed it calmly and lowered it, and then the spit-slick finger was circling Kurt’s rim until he was pushing down, desperate for everything he didn’t know he’d wanted. Blaine pushed in gently, and Kurt bore down against the vague sting, an increasing need for something  _more_ , something _different_  building in him.

“Are you…is it hurting you?” Blaine asked, and his voice was wrecked, tired and lusty all at once.

Kurt shook his head and keened, fucking himself onto Blaine’s finger and chasing the vague sensation that he was on the edge of something wonderful, if only he could get Blaine  _deep enough_.

“Gods,  _Kurt_ ,” he breathed, and he began sliding the finger in and out until Kurt was completely lost, rocking back and forth and clutching at Blaine’s arm for leverage and guidance.

“I’m—I’m—“

Blaine kissed him hard, pulling his face in and not bothering with anything but moving their lips together as Kurt fell further and further apart. He shifted and then, with the next thrust, Kurt was overwhelmed with bolts of shock running up his spine. He quickly lowered his hand to his cock, struck with an undeniable need to come, and stroked only once before he came so hard it was almost a spray, splattering over his hand and chest and Blaine’s arm.

He realized Blaine’s free hand was no longer cupping his cheek and opened his eyes just in time to catch Blaine finishing himself off with his finger still buried in Kurt; his eyes clenched shut and his mouth hanging open as he threw his head back and bucked up into his fist. He let out a gusty moan, and Kurt thought he had never looked more beautiful.

Kurt sat up and guided Blaine to lie down on the bed when he had finished, his hand falling from his cock onto his thigh, unconsciously caressing the strained muscles there. When he was lain back and relaxed, sated and sweet in the morning light, Kurt leaned over and kissed his face, his lips skimming the scars tenderly.

“You’re going to have to tell me where you learned to do  _that_ ,” Kurt purred, kissing his mouth once before slipping out of bed and over to the basin of water he kept for washing. He carefully searched his body for come, wiping up all he found, before wringing out the cloth and bringing it to Blaine. He knelt next to Blaine on the bed and cleaned him gingerly.

Blaine’s hands found his body again, petting his hips and thighs and back and stomach—anything he could reach—with a dreamy smile on his face.

“I am remarkably well-informed,” Blaine said, as though imparting an important secret. “Growing up with the likes of Nick was an education. He dallied with an older servant while lodging here at the castle, and he was only too proud to boast of his exploits.”

“I shall thank him when I meet him, and congratulate his husband,” Kurt declared, smirking at Blaine when he laughed.

“I’m sure he’d be delighted, actually.”

They relaxed into each other’s arms, feeling each other drowsily come down to earth. When the sun had crept a little further up the bed through the freshly cleaned windows, slowly warming more and more of their skin, Blaine kissed Kurt’s nose and rolled out of bed.

“There’s somewhere we need to be this morning,” he said, pulling on some fresh clothing. Kurt watched him dress before slipping out of bed himself, walking fully naked and unashamed up to Blaine, who paused in buckling his belt and raked his eyes over Kurt’s approaching form.

“You’re making this harder than it has to be,” Blaine complained, though he didn’t sound the least upset.

Kurt casually cupped Blaine through his breeches and tilted his head wryly, scrunching up his nose in mock deliberation before smirking devilishly. “Not yet, but I can work on it.”

Blaine groaned as Kurt laughed, pulling his hand away and instead lacing their fingers together, bringing them up so he could kiss Kurt’s knuckles.

“Dress. And then head to the court—there’s a meeting. I’ll see you there.”

Kurt watched him walk away, and by the time he realized Blaine hadn’t worn his hood, he was gone. Kurt scrambled into his clothes and ran out the door, heading straight into court.


	23. Chapter 22

When Kurt flew into the court, it took everything Blaine had not to lose himself in staring at Kurt with a fond smile—he was flustered, obviously, and hastily dressed, but nobody commented, because Sam flew in almost immediately after in a similar state of disorder, obviously late waking up. He gave Kurt a look of fellow-feeling, which Kurt returned after only an instant of hesitation.

Thankfully, the charade wouldn’t have to last much longer.

All he had to do was walk to the head of the room to reveal himself. He wasn’t wearing his hood—he couldn’t hide behind anything now. And he was terrified, yes, but these people had stuck by him when he was at his worst. And now that he was steadily becoming what he hoped would be his best, they deserved the truth.

The first step to his freedom, and all he had to do was take one step.

Blaine walked out from where he’d been standing by the stairs, mostly hidden in the half-light of the court, which was waiting on several materials before the workers started on it. It was still in disrepair, dirty and broken and neglected. But not anymore.

He heard several gasps as he approached the group gathered at the head of the room, but he ignored them, walking forward with his shoulders back and his head high. Maybe it should’ve been the smiles on most of their faces that kept him walking forward. Maybe it should’ve been something as simple as a lack of terrified screams. But what really kept him moving forward, without a question, was the pride and love in Kurt’s eyes as he tearfully watched Blaine approaching, his face bare for the world to see.

Eleven people, everyone but Beiste, who was probably busy readying the practice field for his visit later. Eleven people, only three of which had seen his face since he hid it seven years ago. And not a single one of them looked disgusted or scared.

They all bowed as he paused before them.

“Your majesty,” Mike said, as though this were a daily occurrence, “we are here, as requested.”

“Thank you, Mike,” he replied, standing as tall and firm as he could manage when all he felt like doing was falling to their feet in gratitude. Instead, he looked around at them with a faint smile.

“I have called you all here because you have remained with me these long years,” he began, and was pleased that his voice remained steady despite the emotion building in his chest. “Not a single one of you abandoned me in my time of need, and I thank you for your loyalty.”

He looked around pointedly at the wrecked splendor of the room around them before turning back.

 “This court is not the only thing I let fall,” he continued. “While you held steadfast in your allegiance, I did not. I abandoned a kingdom that needed me. And it is unforgiveable. But I intend to remedy the situation as soon as possible. You’ve all seen the workers about the castle, and you’ve heard the rumors—I do intend to resume court on the day of my twenty-first birthday. Less than three weeks away, now. I will need your help now more than ever.

“You are more than my servants. You, above all others, are my friends, and I intend to show all of you my thanks in times to come. But now, we have work to do, for while I have vowed to right my wrongs, not everyone is as faithful as you have been. Will you join me in renewing that which was left to die?”

Blaine held back tears as each one of them, in a wave of sound, called, “Ay!”

“Thank you,” he said. “It will not be easy. Sebastian may still mean to attack, and I do not want to see any of you harmed. Starting tomorrow, I want each of you to make time to visit Armsmaster Beiste for training. If I could, I would be by each of your sides should the need arise, but since I can’t I want every one of you to be safe in any way you can. So please, make sure you can defend yourself when I cannot.

“Kurt,” he called, turning to Kurt and fighting off a smile at his lover’s look of surprise. “Would you be so kind as to go to the practice fields and inform Armsmaster Beiste that I am on my way to discuss this myself?”

Kurt looked around suspiciously for only a moment before bowing low with a quick, “Yes, majesty,” before striding out to do as he was bid. Blaine smiled after him before returning his attention to his servants.

“I need your help in one other matter,” he said. “I’m sure you’ve been suspicious of my favor to Master Hummel since he’s been here—“

“No, your majesty!” Puck called, and a few people turned to stare at him in shock for interrupting the Prince, but Puck didn’t look the least bit phased. “We all know you two are fucking.”

Pretty much everyone reacted, mouths falling open and gasping being the general idea, with Santana snickering behind her hand. Once everyone gathered themselves, however, they looked to Blaine fearfully, as though expecting him to have an outburst.

Fortunately, Kurt had done much to ease his temper, and he knew Puck hadn’t meant it insultingly. He took a deep breath and said, “I’m afraid it’s a bit more than that, Puck. I’m afraid my love for him is to the extent that I will be refusing all who wish to marry me, regardless of their offers or station. In fact, I plan to ask Kurt for a formal union very soon.”

The silence in the court echoed louder than any outcry could have, and Blaine pushed through the fear of having taken a wrong turn.

“I’m sure you all know that it is due to Kurt that this…rejuvenation is even happening,” he said. “He has breathed life into me where before I was fading into nothing. I would have gladly allowed Sebastian to take the kingdom, and for that I must express the deepest shame and regret. But Kurt let me see the truth, and the strength within myself.

“So please, if not for me, then for him—help us keep our secret. I will be able to face the trouble that comes of not taking a wife, but should the world find out that I have taken one of my servants as a husband, I cannot say what will happen—perhaps, in time, it will not be a matter for concern, since there is precedent for royalty marrying commoners. But right now, with my power in such a precarious position, it's not wise to make this public knowledge. So will you all do me this favor, and keep our relationship from the ears of the workers and, later, from the court?”

Again, they all called out in the affirmative, and Blaine hung his head. “Thank you all.”

When he looked up, Tina was holding a hand up, looking at him pleadingly.

“Your majesty, may I speak?”

“Yes, Tina,” he answered, for which he received a grateful smile from Mike.

“You said you wish to ask Kurt for a union,” she said, “and I was wondering…would you like our help with that as well?”

Blaine turned to look at Mike first, and from his knowing smile, Tina had spoken to him about this ahead of time. He turned back to the rest of them.

“If you are willing, then yes, your help is most welcome,” he said. “Here is my plan—“

When Kurt arrived at the practice fields, Beiste came barreling out of the low stone building right against the outer walls of the grounds and held her arms wide as though she were going to gather him up in a hug. Eyeing her strong arms and her exuberance, Kurt made a quick move to preserve his ribs and stopped to give her a bow.

“His majesty has sent me to deliver a message,” Kurt said, standing straight again and smiling at the Armsmaster where she stood, obviously a little disappointed in having been denied a cracking embrace.

“Another one?” she asked in her gruff voice. “What’s my little Prince wantin’ this time?”

“He wanted me to let you know that he is on his way to discuss the training of his household.”

“He’s on his way right now?”

“Yes.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so!” Beiste cried, reaching out and grabbing Kurt’s shoulders, guiding him toward the building. “We have things that need to be readied for him!”

“But he didn’t say he was coming to—“

“Sure he did,” Beiste interrupted, slapping Kurt’s back with one large hand and almost sending him sprawling through the door. He straightened up from his stumble and walked in before Beiste could send him completely onto his ass.

The inside of the building smelled mostly of sweat. There were several stands of armor, stacks of what looked like padded waistcoats and breeches, a few weapon stands, and a lot of benches. In the corner was a huge wooden basin with a spigot coming out of the wall, and Kurt approached it, hands wandering over the metal spout.

“That’s all rainwater up there,” Beiste said behind him. “Best thing the old king ever did, puttin’ that in. There’s a fire pit outside, heats up the reservoir and you got yourself a hot bath in about half the time a’ carryin’ in buckets and heatin’ ‘em on the fireplace, and it gets about as hot as a goat’s butt in a pepper patch. An’ it’s good for after you been out lickin’ those strawmen all day. Now, it ain’t nothin’ on the baths used to be in the royal apartments, but we don’t need high cotton around here.”

 “Of course,” Kurt said automatically, hoping he’d translated that spiel well enough to be able to reference it later if needed.

“Now, I been told you’re gonna be needin’ some trainin’ supplies,” she continued, heading over to the stacks of padding and patting them, sending up a cloud of what Kurt hoped was dust. “I reckon I got some what’ll fit ya.”

“Oh, I’m not—“

“Ah, Armsmaster, I see you’re getting Kurt all set for our training today.”

Kurt turned and saw Blaine ambling in, hands held behind his back and a self-satisfied smirk on his face that made Kurt particularly suspicious. Blaine smiled at him beautifully, and Kurt considered letting himself be fooled for only an instant before Blaine opened his mouth again.

“If you get us strapped up, I’ll let you ascertain his skill level and I’ll take over from there.”

“You think he’ll be fast enough for the rapier?” Beiste asked. “Rapier fightin’ takes an awful lot of skill.”

“I think you’ll know best,” Blaine replied, “but I think with some practice, he could become quite good at it. But we’ll start him with the broadsword and go from there.”

“Blaine?”

Kurt ignored the half-smile and approving nods Beiste gave him being so familiar with their Prince and stared Blaine down.

“I’m training today?”

Blaine smiled at him and then looked over to Beiste.

“Shannon, would you be so kind as to give a few moments?”

“Sure thing, majesty,” she said, and she headed to the far side of the room, by the basin, and slipped through a door into what Kurt assumed were her quarters.

“Why am I training?”

Kurt crossed his arms and tilted his head at Blaine, raising his eyebrows severely. Blaine sighed and stepped forward.

“I received some…intelligence. On Sebastian.”

Kurt felt himself paling, his blood draining from his face as though drawn by the cold knife sinking into his stomach. His knees trembled and suddenly the possibilities were flashing before his eyes—why would he need to train because of Sebastian? Had Sebastian found out where he was? Was Sebastian going to kill him, or take him?

“Kurt, no, he won’t touch you,” Blaine soothed, and Kurt realized that not only had he spoken out loud, but Blaine had rushed forward and was supporting him, one arm around his waist and one hand cupping his cheek, warm and rough and intimate.

“I’m sorry,” Kurt babbled, “I don’t know why he affects me like this. I just can’t decide if Sebastian taking me or killing me would be worse.”

“He won’t do either,” Blaine insisted firmly. “I won’t let Sebastian have you. No matter what, you will never have to cater to his whims, and you will never have to fear his wrath. He will  _never_  touch you.”

“How can you be sure? What did you hear about him?”

“He is still making plans to attack the castle,” Blaine said calmly, brushing a stray hair off Kurt’s forehead. “He doesn’t seem to care that I’m resuming my duties. He is coming anyway.”

Kurt felt like he could barely breathe, could barely stand, but Blaine was right there, holding him up and holding him together in his strong arms.

“I have the support of the other Lords,” he continued quietly, tilting their foreheads together, so close that Kurt could feel his breath on his own lips. “We will have enough troops by my birthday to prevent his coming. And I will take every precaution necessary to make sure that you are safe.”

“And that’s why I’m training.”

“Exactly. I want you to be able to defend yourself, though I will do everything in my power to make sure you won’t need to.”

“And what if Sebastian wins?” Kurt asked, his voice almost inaudible, barely able to breathe the words.

“I have made arrangements for you to have sanctuary with Lord Nicholas in Westerville,” Blaine said, his eyes closing, the sight of his long eyelashes brushing his cheeks taking up Kurt’s entire field of vision. “And Puck is heading to Lima today, to guard over your family. Everything is taken care of.”

“No it’s not,” Kurt snapped, suddenly strong as he pulled his head back and looked Blaine right in the eyes. “What about you?”

Kurt’s heart gave a little lurch when Blaine actually looked surprised at his question. Kurt held Blaine’s face in both his hands and kissed him deeply.

“I am grateful for the thought you’ve put into protecting me and my family,” Kurt whispered, “but what about protecting yourself, Blaine? You’re the most important person in my life.”

Blaine smiled at him, his eyes wide and shining.

“I will do everything in my power to stay alive, Kurt—“

“—and what if that means giving up the kingdom?”

Blaine rocked back as though Kurt had hit him.

“Are you asking me to—“

“Never,” Kurt amends quickly. “You know how much I believe that you should be on the throne. But I meant…would you let Sebastian kill you out of some misplaced honor? Or if it came to it…would you run with me? Disappear until we can fight back and get rid of that rodent for good?”

Blaine nodded, smiling and kissing Kurt quickly.

“If it meant being able to come back another day…yes,” he said, “I would run with you. I had determined to fight Sebastian to the death should he come—but if it seems I cannot win, it would be better to abandon pride and still have hope for the future than to die and leave Sebastian as the only legitimate heir.”

“Promise me,” Kurt demanded softly.

Blaine stepped back, grasping Kurt’s hands and bringing the up to his lips, kissing them.

“I promise that if I cannot win, I will run with you. But may I demonstrate to you that you needn’t worry so much?”

Kurt sighed and nodded.

“Do I have to put on the dusty old padding?”

Blaine laughed. “Yes, you do. I don’t want you to actually get hurt. Though I wouldn’t be surprised if we were both bruised by the end of the day.”

He released Kurt’s hands and stepped back, turning to the door that Beiste had disappeared through and calling, “Armsmaster!”

She appeared through the door a moment later, her eyes red and wet.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice thick, “but this wall’s thinner than the hair on a shaved boar, and I couldn’t help but overhear. Forgive me.”

“No matter,” Blaine said easily. “Would you be so kind as to get the training yard ready? I’ll get Kurt fitted in some armor and we’ll be out momentarily.”

“Of course, majesty,” Beiste replied. “I’ll just grab the practice swords.”

She did so and ambled out the door into the dusty practice yard eagerly. Blaine turned to Kurt and smiled.

“Now let’s get you strapped in.”

“You’re lucky I’m not wearing anything important,” Kurt grumbled, tugging at his simple shirt and following Blaine to the stacks.

The practice armor was stiff and uncomfortable with plenty of padding, and it had a questionable smell, but Kurt let Blaine lace it onto him with a faint blush, worried every moment that Beiste would come back in and see Blaine fondling him inappropriately as he worked. By the time he was standing stiffly in the armor as he helped Blaine tie his on, he was fighting off his body’s desire to harden in his breeches.

“Shall we go out?” Blaine asked casually when he was finished, gesturing for Kurt to go ahead of him.

The practice yard was a dusty expanse of trampled ground, spurts of grass growing here and there since it probably hadn’t been visited so much in the past couple of years. It was fenced, with straw effigies planted on posts along one side, holes from arrows evident in the rough cloth covering them, with more thick, beaten wooden posts nearby, ostensibly for practicing sword maneuvers from all the cuts and dents in them.

Beiste was hovering by the posts, three wooden practice swords stuck in the ground next to her. When they came out, she nodded to Kurt.

“Okay, what sorta things you done before?”

Kurt tilted his head and grimaced a bit.

“Why don’t we just try some things out?” Blaine suggested. Kurt didn’t stop grimacing.

Two hours later they were both sweaty and grimy. They tried swords first, Blaine demonstrating his skill with his rapier against Beiste before they all switched to a simpler sword to handle. Kurt ended up being unwieldy with the broadsword, but the moment a knife was put in his hand, he excelled, landing several blows on both Blaine and Beiste, leaving bruises wherever he struck. He was also apt at grappling, being broad and tall enough to best someone like Blaine but quick enough to evade someone like Beiste. Against someone like Sebastian, it might not work, as Sebastian not only had the longer reach and height advantage, but was also thin and whip-quick. But he could manage in a pinch.

“We’ll make time to come back here as often as possible,” Blaine said, wiping sweat from his brow as Beiste gathered up the wooden practice weaponry and lugged them back into the building. “We’ll focus on the knife for you—you’ve got a natural talent with it.”

Kurt began untying his padding, feeling uncomfortably hot in it, as he said, “As long as I can use that bath to wash off this grime.”

He didn’t notice the darkening of Blaine’s eyes as the Prince started removed his own armor and gathered it up, along with Kurt’s.

“I’ll be right back,” he said. “I’ll just put these back. Wait here.”

Kurt pulled his shirt away from his skin, grimacing as it clung to him, dark and heavy with sweat. He’d have to ask Beiste if he could have the privacy to use that bath, and maybe have Blaine join him...

“Welp,” Beiste called, striding out through the door, “if you want to wash that filth off of ya, I got the fire pit out back heatin’ up the cistern, all you gotta do is unplug the pipe and you got hot water. Now, I got a rumblin’ in my gut and Emma makes a right fine remedy to that, so I’ll be goin’ now.”

“O-okay,” Kurt stammered, watching as Beiste left unceremoniously, ignoring his attempt to speak. He stared after her, head cocked as he wondered what  _that_  was about.

And then warm arms slipped around his waist and a pair of moist lisps brushed the back of his neck.  _Oh_.

“Did you just send Beiste away?” he asked wryly, a half-smirk breaking onto his face as he turned to look at Blaine.

“Mmm, maybe.”

Kurt bit back a laugh as Blaine continued to tease the back of his neck. Well, two could play that game.

“So we have full days, now,” Kurt commented airily, threading his fingers together with Blaine’s over his stomach. “Roses to tend, garments to sew, workers to oversee, songs to write, minstrels to train…I don’t see that we have any spare time in our days, now. I suppose we’ll have to start waiting until we can make use of our nights.”

Blaine nuzzled his ear and chuckled darkly, whispering, “Then I’ll have to bathe by myself?”

Kurt shrugged faintly. “Well, that basin is hardly big enough for two—“

“Then we’ll just have to make use of all this free space.”

With that, Blaine bit down on the juncture of his neck and shoulder. Kurt gasped and arched his back, the pain radiating into a wash of pleasure over his body.

“Again,” he breathed, air gusting from his lungs as his entire body trembled.

Blaine spun him around and kissed him hard before sucking Kurt’s bottom lip into his mouth and nipping at it, drawing harsh, quick breaths from Kurt.

“Why does that feel so good?” he asked, pulling Blaine into another bruising kiss before he could form an answer.

Suddenly, they were scrabbling at each other’s clothes, ripping at lacings and fumbling at belt buckles as they tumbled to the ground in a tangled heap. Blaine’s shirt came off readily, but when Kurt’s refused to cooperate, Blaine grasped the hem and  _pulled_ , tearing it apart with his bare hands.

“Gods, Blaine,” Kurt whined as Blaine tore the remnants of the shirt off his shoulders and attacked his bared skin, biting and sucking marks into the pale flesh.

They writhed together for several minutes, reveling in the slide of sweaty skin contrasting against the gritty sensation of the dirt as they rolled around, kissing and groping and nipping at each other wherever they could reach.

“Blaine,” Kurt whimpered, “we have to—to be careful—anyone could see—“

“Then we’d better hurry,” Blaine rasped.

But he made no move to change what they were doing. He pinned Kurt down and licked the sweat from his collarbones, moving away from Kurt when he lifted his hips to seek friction for his aching cock.

“Fine,” Kurt spat, reaching down into his breeches and taking himself in hand.

“Oh gods, Kurt.”

Blaine stopped and frantically reached down, pulling at the strings holding Kurt’s pants closed and peeling them away, exposing his erection to the cool air.

Kurt adjusted his grip to feel more natural and began to stroke, pulling away to lick his palm quickly when the drag was too much. When he returned, the glide was easier, slicker, but Blaine quickly knocked his hand away, taking over with his own hand.

“You too,” Kurt said, bringing his freed hands down to Blaine’s breeches. He unlaced them deftly, pulling the v of them apart and down, pushing the leather down to Blaine’s thighs. He stared at what was revealed, drawing his fingers across the sharp cut of his hips, down to the dark thatch of hair at the base of Blaine’s cock, gloriously thick and veined and familiarly flushed. He drew a finger up its length, stroking the velvet skin of the head and watching with fascination as a pearly droplet leaked from the slit.

He reached down again and grabbed Blaine’s flushed length, savoring the weight of it in his hand. Blaine gasped again, groaning, “More.”

They continued quickly stroking each other, gripping tighter and rocking harder as they chased release together, panting heavily between their sweating bodies.

“Come here,” Kurt whispered, right on the edge and desperate for contact. Blaine released him and lowered himself, sliding their cocks together and rocking his hips, moaning. Kurt grabbed them both in hand and held them together, bucking up as Blaine thrust forward, the slide tight in his fist.

“That’s—that’s perfect, just like that,  _yes_ ,” Blaine babbled, his body tensing for one glorious moment before he cried out and came, thick white ropes striping on Kurt’s stomach. Kurt shuddered and opened his mouth in a soundless cry as he followed moments later, spilling over his hand and stomach and Blaine’s softening cock.

They lay together catching their breath for a brief time before remembering themselves and where they were, scrambling to gather their clothes and rushing into the building, giggling like children as they stumbled into one another, unsteady on their feet.

“What if someone had seen?” Kurt blurted, laughing behind his hand as they stripped properly and laid their clothes out on one of the benches. “Though even if they didn’t they’ll probably realize when I walk back in this shirt.”

“I’m sorry for that,” Blaine said, not sounding apologetic in the least. “You can wear mine and I’ll just wear my jerkin bare.”

“It’ll chafe,” Kurt warned.

“It’s only a short distance,” Blaine replied. “And you can kiss it better later.”

And as simple as that, Blaine drew Kurt to the bath.

“Now relax with me before we go back. Let me soothe those aching muscles of yours.”

Kurt kissed him, a little too dirty to be sweet.

“I somehow think I’ll be sore anyway,” he teased, and Blaine agreed.


	24. Chapter 23

Over the next five days, Kurt kept himself busy, just as he told Blaine he would. He told himself it wasn’t because Sebastian’s deadline of the end of the month was passing on the fourth day, but it was honestly a part of it. So when he woke up early on the first with a knot of dread in his stomach, he immediately slipped out of bed, leaving Blaine to slumber on, warm beneath the covers. He grabbed Blaine’s garment, heading to the royal apartment—it still hadn’t been slept in once—and sitting down by the window, determined to work on it until it was finished. He peeked out the window every few minutes to make sure that Sebastian didn’t saunter up like a nightmare made real to find him.

The castle was looking like a new place. Gardens graced the path from the gatehouse to the entrance, hedges carved into mazes and threaded with bright flowers. Dead ivy was pulled off the walls, leaving only a few vines of the bright green, living plant sneaking up the side in places, giving it an aura of life rather than death. Most of the bedrooms, servant rooms and court rooms alike, were cleaned and repaired; they only waited for new furnishings to complete them. Artists had even started bringing their work to the castle for approval, and many paintings and sculptures had been replaced or repaired in the galleries. The library had been filled with books, the temple had been blessed, and Kurt and Blaine had spent a memorable afternoon in the royal bathhouse, testing its waters, so to speak.

And then there were the gifts. Every day so far, Kurt had returned to his and Blaine’s rooms each night to find a gift waiting for him, laid underneath a single rose that matched the first one Blaine ever gave him—dark red, thornless, a declaration of love that was not only immediate, but strong and true and lasting. First a bolt of fine silk that Kurt hadn’t decided on a use for yet; then, twice in a row, trinkets for his clothes—a beautiful silver belt buckle studded with rubies and a brooch of onyx carved into a blackbird; a set of silver stiletto knives with filigree handles, though they were sturdy enough to actually be used as weapons; finally, a vial of his own rose oil that Kurt immediately put aside for better use than scent or softening his skin.

Kurt worked on songs and sang to Blaine at dinner every night, and even for the other servants and the workers on occasion, to keep them entertained and, above all, well-behaved as they drank their ale and ate the food Emma had had to hire workers to turn out. But he was working on a story, as well, to give to Blaine—a grand tale that followed Blaine’s life with only a thin veil of a bard’s embellishment over it.

But he was stuck. He didn’t know how to put his and Blaine’s love for each other in it without jeopardizing Blaine’s position. And ever since he’d realized that, he’d stopped writing it, stopped writing anything. He felt like the music and the lyrics had drained from his soul, left bereft by the fact that he could not shout his love from highest tower. No servant, and at the moment, no  _man_ , could dare risk it. Blaine might not be able to survive the scandal, not with his connections with court members so tenuous before court even had the time to begin.

So he worked on clothes and played songs he already knew, and on the first of the month he spent the entire day locked in his room and by the next day he’d finished Blaine’s garment.

That evening, he laid the outfit out on the bed and stared at it, so pleased with himself that he could barely keep from running out to find Blaine that very moment. But no—it wouldn’t do to start bouncing around squealing, even if that’s exactly what he wanted to do when he imagined how handsome it would look on Blaine. No. He’d have to find an occasion to present it.

Blaine provided the opportunity that night.

“I have something for you tomorrow,” he said quietly as they lay in bed together, drifting slowly towards sleep. “Would you meet me in the court after lunchtime? I’ve made sure neither of us have business then.”

Kurt smiled, not bothering to question how he cleared Kurt’s schedule as well as his own during such a busy time.

“I suppose I could do that,” he replied, burrowing further into Blaine’s arms and Blaine’s warmth.

After a quick lunch with Mike, who was looking tired but pleased after a meeting with some of the workers, Kurt hurried to the court to meet with Blaine, excited not only for his own gift, but to give Blaine his. 

When he arrived, Blaine was dismissing the foreman with a polite nod. When the man left and Kurt approached, he pulled back his hood and smiled.

“How is it looking?” he asked, spreading his arms and looking around.

The court was looking better by the day. It had been completely cleaned, the marble floors scrubbed until the golden-hued veins could be made out again, though it still needed repairs in places. The windows of the great dome above were cleared, and the chandelier had been wiped of all cobwebs and wax, the empty cups awaiting new candles. The walls were being painted again, and while the dais at the head of the room remained empty, Kurt knew that Mike had specifically sought out a skilled metalworker to make a great silver throne for Blaine as a birthday gift from the servants.

“It’s amazing, Blaine,” Kurt replied, grinning back. “Will it be done in time?”

Blaine nodded happily.

“Yes. The foreman just told me he’s got some marble being shipped in from Haverbrook. It should be here in about a week, leaving him another week to finish.”

“So everything’s on schedule?”

Blaine just smiled, a little smug. Kurt laughed and knocked their shoulders together companionably.

“Are you going to keep looking like that when court opens?” he asked teasingly, plucking at the sleeve of Blaine’s ill-fitting jerkin and fishing a little to try to find the perfect moment.

“Santana took that matter into her own hands, I’m afraid,” Blaine said simply. “She demanded a great deal of money to turn me, and I quote, ‘from probable rat-catcher to possible royalty.’ But enough of that—I have something to show you, remember?”

He grabbed Kurt’s hand and led him up the eastern staircase, laughing out of sheer delight. Kurt joined him readily, struggling to keep up as Blaine bounded away.

“What is so exciting— _oh_.”

Blaine stopped right in front of the door to the music room.

“It’s finished,” Blaine said. “Close your eyes.”

Kurt did as he was told, used to Blaine’s way of giving him surprises, and walked through the door when Blaine guided him.

“Okay,” he said, stopping Kurt and moving away. “Open.”

Kurt opened his eyes.

The room was perfect. All polished wood and velvet drapes to catch the sound. There was a seat for him to play his lute, a stand with a viol in the corner, and even a harp off to one side, which Kurt vowed he would learn soon. But what caught his interest was in the center of the room.

“You got a harpsichord?” Kurt asked with awe. “Oh, I’ve always wanted to play one.”

“I’ll teach you,” Blaine said, wrapping Kurt up from behind and tucking his chin over Kurt’s shoulder in a way that had become familiar. “I do remember that one. And you can finish teaching me the lute.”

“It’s perfect,” Kurt whispered, turning in Blaine’s arms and kissing him.

“And it’s all yours,” Blaine whispered back, smiling at Kurt. “As am I.”

Kurt laid their foreheads together and grinned.

“Can we try it out?”

Blaine laughed and sidled over to the bench, seating himself on one end and patting the other for Kurt. Kurt nestled himself into Blaine’s side and placed his hands on the lower set of keys. He pressed a few, sending out a dissonant chord, and he flinched with a quick, “oh!” as Blaine laughed beside him.

“It’s not that different from a lute, I imagine,” he said, still grinning. “You just have to know which ones go together.”

With that, he placed one hand on the keys and pressed down, and the instrument sounded out a sweet, clear chord. Kurt smiled ruefully.

“There’s so many,” he said, lightly running his fingers over the top row. “So much to learn.”

He felt a press of lips to his shoulder.

“We have time.”

Kurt turned and smiled at Blaine, entirely in love. They had time—all the time they wanted. Months, years, a  _lifetime_. And that was the gift Blaine had really given him— _happiness._

“My gift for you pales in comparison,” he mentioned, shaking his head.

“Oh, I doubt it,” Blaine answered quickly, and Kurt realized he thought Kurt was still talking about the music room. “Anything from you is something I’ll cherish. What is it?”

“I finished your garment.”

Blaine smiled and caressed Kurt’s cheek.

“Then we shall have to come up with a reason for me to wear it as soon as possible,” Blaine said. “Dine with me tonight.”

Kurt raised an eyebrow.

“Isn’t that a little too public?”

“I don’t care,” Blaine said simply, shaking his head. “I want you to dine with me every night, just us. I will have to host special banquets and the like, once court resumes, and as court minstrel you will have to perform there, but when it’s just us, I don’t want you performing anymore. I want you next to me. There will be no one around but Mike and Wes and David, and they already know.”

Kurt’s eyes widened.

“They know?”

“All of my servants know,” Blaine said. “I told them the day we first visited Beiste for your training.”

Realization dawned.

“When you sent me out—“

“When I sent you out. Yes.”

Kurt held back tears, smiling at Blaine with a quivering lip.

“Dine with me tonight. I’ll wear your outfit, and we’ll have a fine meal and dance beneath the stars.”

“That sounds wonderful.”

“Then say yes.”

Kurt shook his head and laughed, dashing away the tears that beaded at the corners of his eyes quickly.

“Of course I will. Did you really think I would—“

Blaine cut him off with a happy kiss, pulling him in hard against his chest before releasing him.

“Good,” Blaine said, kissing his cheek before backing away. “I’ve got business in the Western Gallery now, and I’ve got to go. I’ll have Wes or David retrieve the garment from your rooms later this evening. But I’ll see you tonight.”

He left. Kurt brushed his fingers against his cheek, still feeling the ghost of Blaine’s lips on his skin, hoping he would never have cause to forget the feeling.

“Tonight.”


	25. Chapter 24

Just before the sun went down, Kurt was fiddling around in his room, trying to decide what to wear for that night’s dinner when Mike knocked on the door and peered in.

“Ah, good,” he said. “Come with me.”

“But I have to—“

“Just come with me.”

Kurt followed Mike out, confused, and increasingly worried about getting dressed as Mike lead him to the second floor. Wes had shown up about an hour earlier and taken Blaine’s clothes, so he would be underdressed in his simple linen shirt and breeches now, and—

“Get dressed.”

Inside the music room was a carved wooden box, placed conspicuously on the bench of the harpsichord.

“Is that—“

“I’ll knock when it’s time for you to come out.”

With that, he disappeared with a soft click of the door.

Kurt approached the box, running a hand over the ornately carved wood, over whorls and swirls and lacy details that seemed too delicate for the material, before lifting its lid and carefully placing it aside.

Inside the box was a gorgeous outfit. The doublet was red and black brocade, patterned with leafy vines running up its length. The breeches were black velvet, high-waisted and lacing up the back like a corset. Matching it was a capelet, and Kurt noticed the ties on the doublet that would hold it in place. Finally, a gauze shirt in vibrant red for under the doublet.

He donned the clothing, adding the belt buckle Blaine gave him earlier in the week, and it was several minutes before he heard a knock on the door. Instantly, he felt a thrill in his stomach, like something big and amazing was coming.

 _I’ll be with Blaine_ , he thought.  _Of course it is._

When he opened the door, Mike had already faded away in the manner of good servants, and he was faced with Blaine standing at the opposite end of the gallery.

The outfit looked amazing on him. Fine cream silk, and Kurt used the red thread to embroider a rose down the front of the doublet, the petals of the flower over Blaine’s chest and the black-threaded stem flowing down to the hem. The sleeves and upper hose were stitched with vertical lines in the same black thread as the stem and leaves of the flower, and the contrast put the red of the petals in stark relief. And unlike the manner of most doublets, which had buttons running up the center, the enclosure was to one side, buttoning up from Blaine’s left hip to his shoulder.

He looked stunning, and if Kurt could judge the way Blaine was looking him up and down, he did as well.

Without a word, Blaine stepped to the staircase on his side of the gallery and nodded toward the staircase by Kurt, smiling mischievously. It was tradition at important functions for royalty to enter by the staircases, sovereign and spouse on either side, to join in the middle and approach their thrones. Blaine had to have planned this, putting Kurt in the position of his husband.

Kurt sent a smile to Blaine, his heart near to bursting, and together they descended the staircases, glancing over at each other with every step.

When they reached the bottom, Kurt paused, two steps from the floor of the court. Blaine made his way over and held up a hand for Kurt to take, smiling up at him with a glint of mischief.

“My name is Blaine,” he said, eyes twinkling.

Kurt reached down and shook his hand, holding back a laugh.

“Kurt.” He smirked down at his love. “Shouldn’t we be getting to dinner?”

Blaine’s grin widened and took over his whole face, suffusing it with a joy that Kurt had never seen.

“Come on,” he said, switching their hands around so that he could tug Kurt along, pulling him off the steps and heading in a direction that was certainly not through the dining room. “I know a shortcut.”

He pulled Kurt along the side of the staircase, heading toward the front of castle. He guided them through the hallway to the western side, and down the corridor that ran alongside the court apartments and a small study before ending up before Blaine’s room. Kurt played along, jogging to keep up at times as Blaine slipped into the room they shared together.

Kurt expected Blaine to forget dinner and try to fool around, but instead, he stopped Kurt at the edge of the bed and turned to a blank expanse of wall.

“I want you to see this,” Blaine said. “I know it’s…a little tawdry, at best, but just in case it’s ever difficult for you to come to our room after a banquet or function. My door might not always be left alone, so this will be a little easier.”

Blaine ran his hand along the wall for a moment, looking as though he were feeling something out, and then suddenly he must have found what he was looking for, because he paused and pushed on the wall firmly.

Kurt heard a click and watched as a small section of wall, a little smaller than the average door, swung away from the wall to reveal a small, dark corridor, about three feet long and maybe two feet wide at most. At the end was the outline of another door, a very faint shimmer of light seeping through the thinnest crack along the top and sides. Blaine gently pushed Kurt into the cramped space, pressing up behind him closely as he shut the hidden door behind them. In the darkness, their breathing was loud and close and too warm, but Kurt shivered as Blaine leant up and whispered in his ear.

“A good hiding spot as well, should you ever feel the desire to listen in on any private meetings. It’s not uncommon for courtiers to have them in the dining hall.”

With that, Blaine reached between Kurt’s arm and waist and felt around the door in front of them for a moment before Kurt heard another click and it swung open to reveal the edge of the staircase in the dining room.

“You’ll have to teach me how to open them,” Kurt said.

“It’s easy,” Blaine replied. “Just a simple matter of finding the crack with your fingers and pushing. The latch is triggered by pressure.”

Kurt would have laughed had Blaine’s free hand not chosen that moment to slip up his backside, applying gentle force against the fabric to feel the cleft below. Instead, he inhaled sharply and arched back, seeking more touch.

“Not yet, my love,” Blaine admonished, “but soon. First, we should eat.”

He guided Kurt into the dining hall and shut the door behind them, but Kurt only knew that because he heard the faint click as the latch caught again. He was too busy staring.

The battered table that Kurt was used to had been replaced by a longer, thinner piece, the wood a deep reddish brown that was highly polished. The chairs had been replaced and matched, the wood carved intricately along the backing. The room had been cleaned, the fireplace fixed and lit, and the portrait above it, which Kurt now saw to be a painting of Blaine’s father, had been revealed, and obviously cleaned.

“That’s—“

“—my father, yes,” Blaine finished. “I have no more need to fear him or his judgment. I am no longer ashamed of my life and my choices.”

Kurt turned and smiled proudly at him. Blaine simply bowed his head a little, a small smile twisting his lips. After a quiet moment, he gestured toward the table.

“Shall we?”

There was an ample amount of food already waiting for them—fare the likes of which Kurt had never been privileged to taste. They seated themselves in front of their plates, Blaine at his customary spot at the head of the table and Kurt seated in the chair to his right, facing the light of the fire. Blaine looked at him as they ate their meal, his eyes never leaving Kurt’s face.

“You are by far the most beautiful man I’ve ever had the privilege to know,” he said at one point, leaning over to kiss Kurt’s cheek. Kurt grinned and turned into the kiss, not satisfied until he felt Blaine’s lips against his own. After a moment they pulled back, laughing out of sheer delight, and they ended up feeding each other, slipping delicacies into each other’s mouths and simply happy at the opportunity to touch and stare at one another’s lips with a cause other than that they could not help themselves.

When they finished, Kurt was feeling full and replete, perhaps a little too much so. He leaned back in his chair and stretched a little, elongating his back and feeling a few rewarding pops. He noticed Blaine looking at him, and he smiled.

“What?”

“Dance with me.”

Kurt huffed out a surprised laugh.

“Here? There’s no room.”

“Not here,” Blaine said. He stood from his chair and held out his hand to Kurt. “Follow me.”

Kurt tangled their fingers together and rose, following Blaine as he led them over to and up the staircase, where Kurt had never been. The steps were clean and in perfect condition, and as they ascended Kurt noticed light flickering from above.

When they reached the landing, Kurt turned to see that there were only a few more steps leading up and to the right, ending in an arched wooden door with two iron torches on either side. Blaine stepped forward and opened the door for them, swinging it outward to reveal the balcony.

It was a large, simple ledge that overlooked the back gardens of the castle, two sides edged by the castle itself, with the edge across from the door just above the back entrance to the castle and the remaining side a great half-circle, all surrounded by a low stone fence that also served as a bench. Above them was a trellis jutting out from the walls of the castle, and the tessellated flagstones beneath their feet seemed to shimmer in the light of a long string of paper lanterns hung above them. Both the bench and the trellis were wound with creeping white rose vines that were closed in the cool night air.

“Would you dance with me here?” Blaine asked, pulling Kurt to the center of the floor and grasping his waist and hand without waiting for a yes. However, he remained still, looking into Kurt’s eyes expectantly.

Kurt shook his head and chided, “There’s no music.”

Blaine sighed and kissed Kurt sweetly.

“Very well then.”

Blaine started leading Kurt into the steps of a simple dance, holding him close as he started to hum. It was a nameless tune, and Kurt suspected Blaine was making it up as he went along, but he had a pleasant, clear voice, and Kurt felt himself relax into it, laying his head on Blaine’s shoulder and burying his face into the scarred skin of his neck.

They remained like that, quietly dancing and humming under the lights for what felt like hours, lost in the rhythm of each other. Finally, Blaine grew quiet and still, simply holding Kurt close. Kurt raised his head and looked into Blaine’s eyes, the world around him blurring as he focused on the flickering of the light against the gold.

“I feel like I can’t remember life before you,” he whispered, careful of breaking the fragile serenity in which they floated, transported by the night and the lights and the flowers and the music that they hadn’t needed to hear after all. “I’m not sure I want to.”

Blaine smiled, his eyes bright with unshed tears, his voice just breaking on his words. “I didn’t  _have_  life before you.”

There was nothing Kurt could say in response. There was only the irresistible urge to be closer to him. He felt his eyes prickle as he leaned in and pressed their mouths together, pulling Blaine into the tight circle of his arms.

It wasn’t enough.

“Let’s go inside,” he whispered. Blaine nodded, his breath hitching.

When they arrived in their room, Blaine pulled Kurt to the fireplace, soaking in the warmth after being out in the chill of the night air. And as the flames danced beside them, casting happy shadows to dapple their skin, they lovingly embraced, carefully removing their clothing and kissing gently, chastely, even as their bodies bowed together and flushed with excitement. Kurt arched against Blaine when his hands unlaced the back of his breeches, smoothing over his ass as he pushed them down. Blaine hunched over and clung to Kurt’s shoulders when Kurt removed his boots. They followed each other as each piece of clothing was taken away from them, by far a more intricate and intimate dance than they shared on the balcony. And when they were completely bare, standing pressed together before the fire, Blaine smiled and lit up Kurt’s world.

“I can’t imagine what I did to deserve you,” he said. “A man whose soul and skin are both so damaged, blessed and honored to have somehow gained the love of an angel.”

Kurt surged forward and kissed Blaine. His words could never be sufficient—he, who made his art by manipulating words, could not speak. So, silently, he pulled Blaine to the bed, releasing his hands to lay himself down, offering himself like a sacrifice on an altar.

Blaine followed him down.

There were several things Kurt would remember about that night for the rest of his life, treasures that he could store inside his heart.

He would remember the feeling of Blaine’s skin on his, head to toe, both flushing from the heat that neither of them could fight down.

And the faint rose smell of the oil that Blaine spread over his fingers before opening Kurt with sedulous, worshipful care.

The circles Blaine’s thumb rubbed into his hip when he bit his lip at the sting of the stretch when Blaine pushed three fingers into him.

And the way Blaine held his face and kissed him as he settled between his legs.

He would remember the feeling of fullness and completion as Blaine settled himself completely inside Kurt, their breaths hitching and mingling between their gently touching lips.

The sheen of sweat on Blaine’s skin as he rocked into Kurt over and over and over, their skin sliding against one another as Kurt wrapped his legs around Blaine’s back.

Or the way Blaine’s cock dragged at his hole as he sped up, hammering into Kurt  _just right_  and bringing them both closer to the edge.

He would remember the moment Blaine stroked him to completion, never losing his rhythm even as Kurt lost control and came across both of them with a strangled sob.

And the transported look on Blaine’s face as he thrust into Kurt frantically, his cries rising until he stilled and threw his head back, completely silent as he spilled hot and hard within him.

He would remember the cool cloth that Blaine cleaned them off with, and the warmth of his body as he gathered Kurt into his arms.

He’d remember the hard ridges of Blaine’s scars beneath his lips as he kissed each one reverently.

And he would remember the last thing he thought before he drifted to sleep.

_There cannot be any greater happiness. My heart could not withstand it._

When Kurt roused from slumber, he was wrapped in Blaine’s arms, just as when he fell asleep, and Blaine was opening his own eyes, smiling at him with love suffusing his features.

“Good morning, my love,” Blaine whispered, his fingers dragging through Kurt’s hair.

“Good morning,” Kurt replied, stretching and leaning into Blaine’s hand.

Blaine grinned at him. “I have something—“

_Knock. Knock. Knock._

Blaine groaned and leant his forehead into Kurt’s neck as Kurt laughed.

“I told them not to disturb us,” Blaine complained. Kurt hushed him.

“Could it be important, then?”

“It probably is—“

“Blaine, I’m sorry, but you have to let me in immediately. Please!”

It was Mike’s voice through the door, frantic and breathless. Blaine glanced at Kurt, who nodded, and pulled the covers on the bed up around himself and Kurt, and called out, “Come in!”

Mike burst in and all but ran into the room, a piece of paper clutched in his hands.

“What is it?” Blaine asked, half-sitting and reaching for the paper. Mike handed it over.

“I am so sorry, but it’s an emergency,” he said, looking right at Kurt.

“What is it?” Kurt asked.

Blaine looked up from the letter, his face drawn.

“Burt’s sick.”


	26. Chapter 25

It had been six days.

Kurt had left not long after the letter arrived—only stopping to pack a bag before he was heading out on one of the Prince's horses.

* * *

_Blaine entered the room quietly. Kurt turned and immediately started apologizing._

_"—I'm sorry, Blaine, but I have to go," he was saying. He was in his apartment, a cloth pack open on the bed, quickly filling as he stuffed in clothes. "I'll try to be back for court, but I just have to go—"_

_"Kurt, I know," Blaine said, standing off to one side, his arms crossed over each other, one hand caressing his own arm as the other clenched the stem of one of his roses between his fingers. He looked uncomfortable—sad, even. "I know you have to go. I understand."_

_Kurt turned and looked at Blaine, tying up the head of his pack and throwing it over a shoulder. Blaine looked on the verge of tears, his body close in on itself. Kurt couldn't help imagining a rose closing its petals against the frost._

_"Blaine, what—"_

_"I want…want you to have this," he said, presenting Kurt with the rose. "And…and I'd like you to tell your father that…that his debt is repaid. I hope you have a safe journey, Kurt."_

_Kurt stared at Blaine, completely uncertain. He took the rose carefully, noticing that the thorns hadn't been removed. Blaine had just cut it, he wouldn't have had the time…_

_"Blaine, what—"_

_"You should go, Kurt," Blaine said. He turned his face to the side, down, and Kurt got the distinct impression that he was turning his back on Kurt as gently as he could. "Your family needs you."_

_Kurt just nodded, afraid that Blaine was upset with him. His entire body looked as if it was aching to be as far from the world as possible-as far from Kurt as possible. But then Blaine stepped forward abruptly and gave him one last, lingering kiss, one hand cupping Kurt's cheek fleetingly before pulling away._

_"Goodbye, Kurt."_

_And then he left._

* * *

Kurt had spent the past six days hoping that Blaine would write—he'd sent out a letter with one of the guards every day, trusting him to find someone to deliver them, letting Blaine know the situation—but he'd gotten nothing in return. All he had was a flower that was swiftly wilting into nothingness.

Burt was very sick, though, and he needed Kurt. Carole was doing what she could, but with Finn in and out trying to deliver messages to people who were important to Burt's business, she needed help. She needed someone to fetch herbs and help with her tinctures and lift Burt when needed. And with their combined effort, Burt seemed to finally be getting better—he was awake and alert and was able to feed himself and complain of their attentions, and Carole insisted it was all a good sign.

"His heart is weak," she said. "Finn will need to take over and he'll have to stay home now. But he is alive, and that's what matters."

He had just over a week until court opened, but how could he leave now? Burt could slip back into illness at any time, he could still die. How could Kurt abandon his family in their time of need?

If only Blaine would write to him.

Kurt missed Blaine. He hadn't gone a single day away from his presence since even before they fell in love, and even though, yes, he ached for some form of Blaine's touch, he also missed his smile and the way his hair curls and the color of his eyes. He missed his laugh and the way Blaine looks at him and how when he thinks no one is looking Blaine will sigh deeply, as though finally finding himself satisfied with something. He missed the sound of his footstep and the smell of roses. His own rose was shriveling too fast, its petals even darker. He tried not to think the worst.

_They can be given to a love lost._

Maybe Blaine had chosen to forget when Kurt chose his family over his staying at the castle. If so, Kurt felt as though his heart would break even while he burned over the unfairness. He had promised to come back—had Blaine given up on them? Had his parting words meant that Kurt was no longer welcome back at the castle? He'd basically released Kurt from service, but did it mean what it sounded like?

Kurt didn't know what else to think.

 _If only Blaine would write to him_.

So that evening, Kurt sat down and wrote another note.

 _My dearest love_ , he wrote, unwilling to say Blaine's name lest it be intercepted somehow.

_It's been nearly a week and I've had no word from you. I know you must be busy, but I long to hear from you. My father is well, and I will be able to return soon._

Kurt paused here, uncertain of what to put next. He felt an urge to beg Blaine for forgiveness, or plead for information, but he didn't want to push Blaine if Blaine had really given up. So he settled.

_I hope you'll welcome me when I return. If not, please let me know before I depart. I hope that it is not so._

_All my love,_   
_Kurt_

He folded it, sealed it, and peeked out the door to hand it to Jon, the guard who'd offered to take care of his letters.

"Thank you," Kurt said, handing it over. "None in return?"

"No, sir," the guard said. "I'll let you know if any come in, and I'll drop this with one of my boys."

Kurt nodded and withdrew back into the house, heading to his room. He sat down at the window until Carole called him to help Burt eat an early dinner, watching as the petals started to fall from his rose.

* * *

Kurt set aside the empty bowl, smiling faintly. Burt  _had_ to be getting better-it was the first time he'd finished his entire meal without pushing it away or complaining.

"You're doing well," Carole commented, brushing a caring hand over Burt's bald head. Burt huffed briefly.

"That mean you're going to let me out of bed?"

"Soon," Carole replied phlegmatically. She turned to face Kurt, still addressing Burt. "I think I'd be comfortable watching you on my own, though."

Kurt shook his head immediately.

"I don't think-"

"No reason to stay, and plenty to go," Burt said simply. "Unless you don't want to go back."

As soon as Burt said it, Carole gave a quiet smile and slipped out of the room, leaving father and son alone to talk.

"Of course I do," Kurt said reflexively. It was true-he ached to return. "Dad, you should know, now...about Blaine."

Burt raised an eyebrow. "What about him?"

Kurt grimaced a little, tilting his head to the side and considering how best to word it.

"He and I...well, the thing is." He took a deep breath and rushed out, "Dad, I'm in love with him."

Burt studied him for a moment before slumping back, as though settling into the idea.

"And does he feel the same?"

Kurt looked up at his nervously, biting his lips. He nodded. Burt ran a hand over his face.

"I don't know what to say, Kurt. I mean, I'm happy for you. You deserve every happiness. But is he the right one to give it to you?"

"I know it's complicated," Kurt admitted, "but I'm not turning away from it, Dad. I know people have a bad idea of him, but he's nothing like that. He's gentle, and sweet, and kind. He's wonderful-he just...got lost. But I have never met anyone like him. He's...he's perfect."

Burt nodded carefully. "He treats you well?"

Kurt smiled wistfully, his thoughts drifting over all the happiness Blaine had brought him. "He treats me like I'm the Prince, actually."

"So. You two...is he going to be letting everyone know he's in love with his servant?"

"Not yet," Kurt replied cautiously. "But when things settle down, we'll talk about it."

Burt sighed deeply. "You really love him, don't you." It wasn't a question.

"Yes. I know Blaine needs me, and...and I need him. My life is so different with him in it-I've never felt like this, Dad. I never thought I could. Every dream I ever had has come true. Well...it  _did_ , at least."

Burt looked at him frankly.

"You should go back, Kurt."

"You need me, Dad—"

"Carole's got me now," Burt protested. "I'm doing a lot better, and you moping around isn't helping me recover any. I know you want to be back with your Prince. And I'm sure he wants you back, too."

"I don't think he wants me back, Dad," Kurt said, hating himself when his voice shook. "He…he told me to tell you that your debt was repaid. The only reason I was there was because of your debt."

"Not anymore," Burt corrected. "You said yourself—you two are in love. I don't think he'd forget that just because you had to come here for a few days. He probably just wanted to make sure you knew that you could come back by yourself and not because you had to."

"But he hasn't written," Kurt insisted. "I haven't heard a single thing, and I've been sending him letters every day. He hasn't written back."

Burt shook his head and shrugged.

"I don't know what to tell ya, kid," he said. "Guy's gotta be busy with the castle right now. It's the final stretch. So it's time for you to go back and make sure you're there to help. It's your responsibility now, Kurt."

"You're my responsibility—"

"No, I'm my own responsibility," Burt interrupted. "Your responsibility is to your Prince and your…whatever you two are. It's time for you to go back."

Kurt sighed and looked at his dad for a long moment. Finally, he just smiled and said, "Okay."

It was evening, but he could pack tonight and leave at first light. That way, if he rushed, he'd be home by evening.

 _Home_. Dalton— _Blaine_ —was home.

He hurried to his room and threw the clothing he'd brought with him back into the bag, pell-mell. Their state didn't matter—getting to Blaine did. In fact, if he left now, he could be there just after nightfall, and he had his knife and he could carry a torch, it would be safe enough—

_Knock. Knock._

Kurt frowned. The guards knew not to knock if they needed to come in now, and visitors had to go through them first, so who was knocking? Why were the guards not taking care of it?

He strode up to the door, wondering if one of the guards was just trying to be polite during their mealtime, and opened it.

Kurt's eyes ran up the rakish form looming over him, blocking the light from the doorway. Familiar smirk, familiar predatory gaze seeping into his skin like oil. Kurt's stomach dropped, replaced by a seething pit of fear.

Sebastian.

"Master Hummel. No longer ill, I see. Good."


	27. Chapter 26

Kurt gasped as Sebastian crowded him away from the door, pushing him back into the house by his mere presence.

“Are you happy to see me?” Sebastian asked, smirking, and Kurt went cold. Behind him, several guards, including Jon, were holding back Puck and the other guard that usually stood post.

“What’s going on?”

“Well, my time has come,” Sebastian said, and Kurt could go no further back—he’d hit a wall, and Sebastian was right in front of him. “I and my soldiers are on our way to Dalton.”

“But—but you can’t,” Kurt blurted. “Blaine is opening court, he’ll be ready in a week—“

“No he won’t,” Sebastian said. “I’m going to kill him. I’ll open court myself and give the Lords a public execution. Do you think that’ll send the message that I’m not playing games?”

“No!” Kurt cried, surging forward without any plan of what he was going to do, but Sebastian slammed him back into the wall, his hands grasping Kurt’s hips firmly.

“You’ll get a front row seat, beautiful,” Sebastian growled, his breath seeping hot over Kurt’s face. Kurt turned to the side and closed his eyes, trying to escape it, but Sebastian was all around him. “I knew you weren’t here this whole time. I knew the moment I heard about the Prince’s pretty new bed warmer. And don’t think I don’t know that that was what you were—my cousin hiring a court minstrel before he even wanted to have a court? It’s laughable how transparent he is.”

Sebastian leaned in further and Kurt felt his nose brush against his hairline, breathing in deeply.

“Did he fuck you well, little songbird?” Sebastian asked. “Did you open up for him, let him fuck that perky little ass? Did his fingers bruise you—“ he  _squeezed_  Kurt’s hips hard, and Kurt cried out “—as he slammed into that hot, tight hole? Because I was looking forward to being the only one to have done  _that_ , and I’m…perturbed that he took what was mine.”

He pressed entirely against Kurt, and Kurt heard a gasp from Carole, who was being barred from entering further down the house. He felt Sebastian hard against his hip, and he squirmed, trying to get away with a whimper.

“I’ll make sure I take it back,” Sebastian said. “I’ll pound that body of yours until you forget Blaine ever existed. And then I’ll make you watch him die. I promise I’ll at least make it quick—after all, he did an awful lot of work for me. But then you’ll spend the rest of your days chained to my bedpost.”

Kurt cried out again and Sebastian backhanded him hard across the face, sending him sprawling to the ground.

“But until then,” he said, “you and your family will be locked here. I can’t have you sneaking away when we’re on the march and telling the Prince my plans. And I can’t have you around…distracting me. When this is all done, though, I’ll make up for  _all_  our lost time.”

Sebastian turned and headed toward the door, but at the last second he paused and glanced back.

“Give him his letters,” he said, and Jon immediately stepped toward Kurt. “Let him have a last taste of his precious little Prince.”

With that, he was gone, and suddenly a small stack of letters ended up in Kurt’s lap.

“You were one of his?” Kurt asked, staring up at Jon bitterly. He’d trusted him.  _Blaine_  had trusted him; he had sworn an oath when he came to the castle. But he’d been sent by Sebastian—there was no other explanation.

Jon didn’t speak. He simply turned around and started barking orders, setting up guards at different points outside the house. Carole looked over at Kurt with tears, shaking her head and covering her mouth.

“It’ll be all right,” he said, cupping his cheek. He’d have a bruise there, as well as on his hips, but he couldn’t let it get truly beneath his skin. “Check on Dad, keep him calm. We’ll figure something out.”

Kurt only hoped he was right.

 

 

Between taking stock of the situation and discussing the problem with Carole and Burt, Kurt didn’t get a chance to read his letters until later into the night. Each one broke his heart, pieces echoing through him as though he could hear Blaine’s voice speaking them in his ear. 

_…miss you every day, it’s like I turn the corner and expect to see you waiting for me…_

_…not the same. I find myself struggling with my responsibilities…_

_…feel trapped in this hood, and my courage is failing me…_

_…please tell me you’re okay. I long to hear from you, or see you again…_

_…please, Kurt, please let me know if you are there, if you still…_

_…love you with all that I am, and hope that you will return to me, just…_

_…I wish I could leave and come see you myself. Every moment aches…_

Kurt felt tears streaming down his face as he read and read and read. Two letters for each day they’d been apart, each more desperate and sad than the last. Blaine had believed him to be indifferent, from his tone, begging for some sign that Kurt was still his and sending affirmations of his own love, but he must have never gotten Kurt’s letters either. Kurt’s heart broke, imagining Blaine at the castle, locked in his study with his hood up again; cold and closed and alone, just like he used to be…

Kurt couldn’t let Sebastian win. But he couldn’t figure out a way out.

There were guards on every corner of the house and at the doors. If he tried to run, he’d be caught. If he jumped out a window, he’d be caught. And he didn’t have time to dig his way out, and he couldn’t come up with a plan…

He wandered out of his room, intending to scope out what the situation was outside, when he heard it.

“But you have to let me in, I’m due to audition for the court minstrel!”

Kurt slid himself against the wall, peeking around the door to the front of the house, listening intently. That was Rachel’s voice, unmistakably.

“No one is allowed in, miss—“

“No, I’m certain I am,” Rachel was saying. “You see, I’m a performer, and I know that the Prince sent his minstrel down to listen to me to determine if my services are needed at court, which of  _course_  they are, and I believe if you check with him you’ll learn that I have an appointment, and I will  _not_ be kept waiting much longer—“

“Kurt!”

Kurt whipped his head around, and he saw his window opened, Finn’s face smiling at him from outside.

“Come on, you’ve gotta go!”

Kurt stammered for a moment, completely baffled, but instinct carried him forward.

“Finn, what’s—“

“Shh!” Finn hushed, his tone much louder than Kurt’s had been. “Come on, jump out. I’ll explain when we go, but you’ve gotta get out here before they come back.”

Kurt immediately climbed out the window, squeezing himself through the small space as best he could—and he’d have to check himself for bruises later, because it had been too tight of a fit in a few spots, namely around his shoulders. He jumped down shakily, and immediately Finn slapped his back and nudged him forward, running away toward the back of the house and, beyond, fields that were thick with growing crops. If they could reach that, they could get lost in it and make it to the woods.

He heard shouts in the distance, and he felt like any moment he could feel a sword in his back. He picked up speed, glad that Finn was keeping up with his long stride to make up for being heavier on his feet than Kurt. But no matter how fast they ran, it felt like the crop field was getting further and further from them instead of closer, and Kurt fought off the urge to turn back—that would be fatal.

It was almost sudden, the way they burst into the field. One moment they were loping through the grass, and the next they were bolting through the still-green stalks, Finn hunching down so that he wasn’t as visible above the tops. They flew through as fast as they could, the supple plants whipping around them, slapping their arms and faces as they pushed through.

Everything went quiet. Kurt started to slow, reaching out and grabbing Finn’s sleeve.

“Stop,” he whispered, holding a finger to his lips. They’d have to slip away from the path they’d left in their blundering flight, just in case they were being tracked. He crouched down, waving at Finn to do the same, and pulled at his brother, guiding him off at a sharp angle from their previous path.

They continued for several minutes, going as quickly as they could without rustling the crops too much, taking several turns to throw off their direction before finally settling down, still and silent, to listen.

“I don’t think they’re after us,” Finn said.

“We have to be careful,” Kurt protested as quietly as he could. “You heard them come after us.”

“What are you talking about?”

“What?”

“Why do you think they’re coming after us? They weren’t inside, were they?”

Kurt glared at Finn.

“You heard them shouting!”

“Oh!” Finn said. “No, I looked back when we were running. They were yelling at Rachel, I think. No one came around the house by the time we hit the field. And unless they go inside, they won’t know you’re gone until…um…until they go inside.”

Kurt huffed and stood up, peering around until he got his bearings. They were in roughly the middle of the field, just off to the western side, closest to the woods, and the house was apparently calm from what he could see at the distance. He puts his hands on his hips and glared down at Finn.

“You’re telling me we just ran around trying to throw off their trail for  _no reason_?”

“Well…yeah.”

“Finn!” he almost shrieked, only caution keeping his voice at a harsh almost-whisper. “We do not have time for this! Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I don’t know, you just dragged me along, I figured you had a plan!”

“I did, but—no, nevermind.” Kurt rubbed his eyes. “Look, I have to get to the castle and see what I can do.”

“But…what can you do?” Finn asked. “I mean, I figured I’d get you out because you’re the reason they were there, right? And when they discover you’re gone, you’ll be far away and then no one else will be trapped. And…I guess I wanted to see if you would go to Westerville. Puck said something about you going there if something went wrong. Prince’s orders, I guess.”

Kurt shook his head, trying to catch up.

“Wait, what? This is…part of an actual plan?”

“Almost?” Finn said uncertainly. “I mean, the part with Rachel just happened, she just took over and told me to go get you when she started getting loud…well,  _louder_. But yeah, Puck told everyone that when you got here that if something happened, we had to get you to Westerville. I guess someone there will take care of you.”

Kurt sighed deeply. Blaine had been careful, and made sure he could be safe no matter what. But had he done the same for himself?

Did he have any idea Sebastian had been on his way? He’d be there by now…

…Was Blaine already defeated? Or was he fighting?

Kurt had to go to him.

“I’m not going to Westerville,” Kurt said. “I’m going to Dalton. I’m going to see if Blaine is safe, and if he’s not, I’m getting him out with me.”

“Kurt, you can’t do anything,” Finn protested. “Leave it to the soldiers.”

“What soldiers?”

“Westerville soldiers.”

Kurt almost screamed in frustration.

“Finn, just…explain. Try not to leave anything out this time.”

“We got one of the villagers to take a horse and run to Westerville,” he said. “Jacob is supposed to push the horse till it drops, and he left as soon as Sebastian did, so unless Sebastian killed him when he ran by the army, he’ll probably be there by now. So…Lord Nicholas should have the message and should be sending his soldiers to help Dalton as soon as he can. Unless Jacob’s dead. Then we’ll have to send someone else.”

“Okay, here’s what you’re going to do,” Kurt said. “You’re going to sneak back to town and send three more people to Westerville. I don’t care how you get the horses, but send them off as fast as you can, make sure Lord Nicholas knows everything. I’m going to sneak into town and steal a horse for myself, and then I’m going to Dalton to get Blaine.”

“But what if—“

“No!” Kurt interrupted. “I’m going. Go send the messages, make sure Rachel didn’t get hurt by the soldiers. And…I’ll see you soon. I’ll have Blaine send for you and Carole and my father when court opens.”

“But—“

“Just do it, Finn.” Kurt turned away, toward town. “I’ll see you soon.”

Stealing a horse was much easier than it should have been. Kurt ran as fast and as quietly as he could around the edge of town, slipping between buildings and making sure to keep an eye out, but no one was wandering about at that hour. He slipped to the back of the bakery, where he knew the baker kept his horse and cart for retrieving supplies, and simply slipped the horse from her stall, leading the tame beast out with scarcely a sound. 

He mounted and checked what he had on him—his clothes, and his silver knife. That was it. And he was increasingly worried about how much time he had left. Any moment he stalled could be a moment that Blaine needed help.

It would have to do.

He didn’t sneak around. He didn’t wait. It was already past midnight and he had no time to waste. He spurred the horse forward and took off toward the castle.


	28. Chapter 27

The floor of the dungeon was cold. The torches outside his cell provided Blaine with little light and no heat, and his clothing was offering him little in the way of protection. He couldn’t tell what time of day it might be—Sebastian had arrived a few hours before sunrise, his regiment in arms behind him, and there had been little anyone could do against him so unprepared. The servants had been cornered and held up before they had even had a chance, and the workmen hadn’t even bothered to put up a fight. The castle had fallen with little resistance.  
  
Blaine himself had been awake, sorting through paperwork in his office with no aim other than to pass time. He’d already finished going over reports and bills and summaries and letters and entreaties; he had just needed something to pass the time. Every moment passed like a century with Kurt not only gone from his presence, but apparently gone from his life—Blaine had not received a single response to his letters, though Puck had at least given him word that Kurt was well.  
  
Part of Blaine couldn’t help fearing the worst. Kurt had seemed just as in love as Blaine when he’d been there, but distance might have given him a different perspective. What if he had realized that Blaine was not his only option? It hadn’t seemed like that was his reason for loving Blaine, but things could change, people could change. Blaine had changed himself so much recently that he wouldn’t be terribly surprised if Kurt had found something stronger and greater within himself than his love for Blaine.  
  
Heartbroken, yes. But not surprised.  
  
He had roses waiting in the corner of the room. Four roses—two lay wilted on the edge, discarded, and two were freshly placed in a small glass vase. They were all thornless, and Blaine sported a few scratches on his fingers from how distracted he was while removing them. He’d had the two dead ones ready the night of his dinner with Kurt, still lush, twined together, ready to present to him, to ask Kurt to be his…but they’d gotten carried away, lost in their lovemaking, and he hadn’t gotten the chance. He would’ve given them to him in the morning; he would’ve carefully laid them on the pillow beside Kurt’s sleeping head, or given them to him on a tray with his breakfast. Anything to show Kurt that he wanted to be with him forever—officially.  
  
But Kurt had run out. Left. And Blaine hadn’t wanted to untwine those roses, just in case, so he ran and fetched another—both a goodbye and a reminder of their love. And when the twined roses wilted, he went and cut two more, and if Kurt hadn’t returned by the time these withered, he’d cut more. He’d keep doing it until he could give them to Kurt.  
  
But he had no idea when that would be.  
  
So on the night of the sixth day away from his love, Blaine had sat in his office, mindlessly shuffling through papers, staring at the roses in the corner, and gotten lost in his despair and the silence that had fallen over him.  
  
And then Sebastian had attacked.  
  
It had happened in a rush—one moment, he’d been quietly seated at his desk, and in the next, he was being dragged out of his chair and thrown to the ground, presented with the tip of a blade. Looking up its length, Blaine was met with the first sight he’d had of his cousin in years.  
  
“Don’t move,” Sebastian had said. “Or I’ll give you a few new scars to add to your collection.”  
  
He’d been dragged into the dungeon and thrown into a cell without ceremony or preamble, and had been left there by himself for an unknown period of time. There were no windows—he couldn’t see if the sun had risen yet or not, though he couldn’t imagine that it hadn’t. He’d spent at least an hour trying to figure out a way to escape to no avail, and he’d spent longer than that sitting against the wall and worrying.  
  
What was Sebastian’s plan? Who had he hurt? Was Kurt safe? Were his servants and friends safe? Had anyone heard? Was help on the way?  
  
When would he know?  
  


* * *

  
Kurt half-expected to run into the rear of Sebastian’s regiment on the road, but the forest was empty of human life up to the pathway that broke off to Dalton castle.  
  
It was here that he needed to decide what to do next. He could ride up to the gates of Dalton in full view and triumphant ceremony, but that would be phenomenally stupid of him. Or he could sneak into the woods and try to find another way in.  
  
He hopped off the horse and paused, considering. Finally, he turned her up the path to Dalton and smacked her flank, sending her cantering up the path. It might throw someone off, it might not, but it seemed better to try than to just leave her there and alert anyone that he was nearby.  
  
He turned to the west, away from the sun that was just beginning to rise behind the trees, and started to run.  
  
Kurt was no outdoorsmen--he knew the basics, but given the choice between flitting through the woods and staying indoors to pass his time, he knew his choice. He knew very well he could get lost and ruin everything, so he stayed close to the path until it inclined steeply, leaving the rest of the forest below. He stayed low, following the edge of the hill upon which Dalton sat, at which point he was faced with the option to either climb or continue circling until he reached the other side.  
  
If he climbed, he’d eventually reach the walls, and he stood a chance of finding a weakness or an opening or a way to climb over. If he circled, he might very well find nothing at all.  
  
And then he heard voices.  
  
He couldn’t make out words, but the murmur of a human voice was clear. He whipped his head around, searching for the source as the rest of his body froze in fear. Wherever the voice was coming from was not in sight--but he was standing right out in the open, and someone could stumble upon him before he had the chance to see them.  
  
He turned around, quickly searching for a place to hide. There--about thirty yards away, through a thick group of trees. A heavy, bright yellow bush, similar to smaller ones dotting the landscape, big enough for Kurt to hide in. Without a second thought, he took off, sprinting as fast as he could until he reached it. He slowed, clambering for a minute, and quicker than he had dared hope, he was crouched beneath a hanging of branches thick with yellow flowers.  
  
He still heard the voices, but they weren’t yelling or frantic--he hadn’t been seen. However, he was wearing primarily black, and if they came by and looked too closely, he’d be discovered.  
  
He stayed as still as possible, hardly blinking as the voices grew closer and closer, until a pair of soldiers wearing the uniform of Sebastian’s regiment came into view from his left. They weren’t facing toward him--in fact, they were walking away from him, toward the path to the castle. Every muscle in his body tensed, every inch of him begging to flee, but he remained, his breathing far too loud. They had to hear it, it was thunderous, any moment they’d turn around and see him and then he’d have to run or be killed--  
  
They disappeared through the trees without turning around, chatting among themselves the entire way.  
  
Kurt emerged carefully from the brush, eyes trained on the trees they’d disappeared behind, and quickly backed away, finally turning tail and running along the edge of the hill that the soldiers must have been patrolling.  
  
That had been far too close. He’d run right at them when he’d run to his hiding spot. He couldn’t afford to do it again, but he couldn’t figure out what else to do but keep going.  
  


* * *

  
The sun was significantly higher by the time Kurt made the decision to climb the hill. He had to be about halfway around, and he was none the wiser as to how to get into the castle. He’d just have to either keep going or turn back, try to find a place where the hill wasn’t so steep--there were cliffs above him, juts of rock and sheer faces, and he’d never be able to get up where he was.  
  
He decided to turn back--he knew the hills behind him were not as steep, and if the guards had a regular path to patrol, he’d be running away from anyone approaching. It was a shame he’d wasted so much time, but it was the best option he had--  
  
“Are you trying to get killed?”  
  
Kurt’s heart skipped several beats and launched up into his throat before quickly sinking into the cold, trembling pit of terror that had formed in his gut. He whirled around to face the voice, clumsily whipping out his dagger from his belt.  
  
“Whoa, put that away,” Santana said, holding up her hands placatingly and looking Kurt up and down judgmentally. “Are you seriously running around in these woods armed with a godsdamned hair pin against Sebastian’s cronies?”  
  
Kurt looked down at his dagger and caught his breath for a moment before straightening up, slipping the dagger back into its place on his hip and lifting his chin defiantly.  
  
“What else would you have me do?” he asked, and then looked around, cutting off any answer. “Where did you come from, anyway?”  
  
“Up there,” Santana said unhelpfully, nodding her head toward the cliffs. Kurt surveyed them carefully before turning to her with a carefully cocked eyebrow.  
  
“You walked through solid rock?” he asked sneeringly. “I’ll be honest, I suspected you capable of witchcraft, but that’s truly impressive.”  
  
“And you’ve deprived your village of an idiot,” Santana snapped back. “And considering all I’ve heard of Lima, you must have worked hard for that title. Though I’m sure your natural talents helped you along.”  
  
“Enough,” Kurt spat. “I can’t just stand here wasting time. Either tell me how the hell I can get into the castle or--”  
  
“--or you’ll tickle me with your little pig sticker?”  
  
“Santana!”  
  
“Fine,” she said. “Though I don’t know what you’re going to do once you’re in the castle...”  
  
“I don’t know either,” Kurt admitted, “but I have to do my best to find Blaine and get him out of there.”  
  
“And take him where?” Santana asked incredulously.  
  
“Westerville,” Kurt answered bluntly. “Lord Nicholas has probably gotten my messages by now, and he’s raising his regiments to fight off Sebastian. I just have to get Blaine out before Sebastian realizes and kills him out of desperation.”  
  
Santana studied him for a tense moment before nodding.  
  
“All right,” she said. “I’ll show you in.”  
  
She leant down and pulled up her skirts, and Kurt watched as she twisted and tucked them in what was sure to be a complicated manner, leaving her with a makeshift pair of breeches, her legs bare below her thighs. She turned and led him to a jagged section of cliff.  
  
“Come on,” she said, hiking herself up and turning to offer Kurt a hand. “We’ve got a little climb.”  
  
She hauled Kurt up the first ledge with surprising strength, but as soon as he was up she turned and started climbing up the cliff like she’d been born to it, quickly ascending while Kurt scrambled to keep up below her.  
  
“Here,” she said. Kurt followed her gaze to a cracked stone pipe, just big enough to fit a person if they crouched down. “It’s an old drainpipe, used to empty out from the cesspits, but it hasn’t been used for that in a long time. Normally it’s a dead end, because it starts below the distillery and the vats are usually full of something, but thankfully there’s been no need to do any distilling, lately. Not enough of us to distill for.”  
  
She turned and looked at Kurt frankly.  
  
“I can lead you up and into the castle--and you’ll be right by the dungeons, which is where Blaine was when I left. But when we get there, I’m going to need something from you.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“I’ll let you know when we get there,” Santana said, and without another word she crouched down and slipped into the drainpipe.  
  
The trip was pitch black and Kurt had to keep a hand along the wall of the pipe and go slowly, always careful not to slam into the back of Santana. As it was, they bumped into each other a few times, and stumbled, and had to pause to gather themselves more than once. And the entire time, the grainy dampness of the stone lay beneath Kurt’s fingers, keeping him grounded when it felt very much like he was lost in a world of echoing darkness.  
  
Finally, Santana paused, and after a long moment of cursing and the sound of scraping, light entered the pipe, along with a strong, sharp smell. Kurt eyes watered, both from the smell and the sudden brightness.  
  
“If you climb up here, you’ll actually be inside one of the vats that used to ferment the wine,” Santana explained in a whisper. “I’m going to climb up, and I want you to count to one hundred, and then you can follow.”  
  
“Is that what I’m doing for you?” Kurt asked.  
  
“No,” she said. “What you’re going to do for me is take care of Brittany if I don’t pull this off.”  
  
She didn’t wait for an answer. Quicker than he could realize what she meant, Santana was up and out of the pipe. Kurt followed, sticking his head out of the hole, and he was just in time to see her climbing up the ladder built into the edge of the vat. She swung over, and Kurt bit his lip to keep from calling out.  
  
There were sounds. Santana yelling in a foreign language, the shouting of soldiers, the whisper of a sword pulled from a scabbard. Finally, there was a heavy thud, followed by clearer voices.  
  
“Let’s bring her up--”  
  
And then silence. Kurt had only reached seventy-four.  
  
He counted another ten seconds, and then climbed out, leaving the drain he’d climbed in through open, just in case.  
  
The lowest level of the castle was lit by torches, and Kurt jumped at every flicker of shadow as he looked around and got his bearings. He had never been down here, and had no idea where the dungeons were located, but he only had one way out and he had to take it.  
  
Thankfully, he encountered nobody as he slipped through the shadows--Santana must have caused enough of a ruckus, or been heavy enough of a dead weight (oh, gods) to require whoever was down here to “bring her up.”  
  
Until he found the dungeon.  
  
There was a foyer, of sorts—a large, square room that had a few tables and benches around, presumably for guards. The door Kurt peeked around was in the corner of the room, and there were two others leading out—one along the wall perpendicular to his door, and another in the far corner of the room. There was a single guard, stationed straight ahead of him, back to that door, facing the whole of the room. He was standing at attention, eyes perfectly forward. He was carrying a spear, a sword at his hip, and he was wearing leather and chainmail armor, fully kitted up.  
  
There was no way he could best the guard in open combat, or convince him to let him pass. He’d have to kill him before he had the chance to defend himself.  
  
Shaking, he pulled his dagger and crept as quietly as he could along the edge of the room. It was very dark, and Kurt was grateful he’d worn black--the guard would have seen him in his peripherals otherwise. As it was, he was surprised that his skin hadn’t given him away.  
  
He drew closer, and he took a deep, quiet breath. He decided to aim for the throat--it was a big enough area that he would probably not miss, as well as being fatal to slice open and with the added effect of silencing his victim.  
  
His victim. He was going to commit murder.  
  
It’s for Blaine.  
  
“Hunter, get up here!”  
  
The guard whipped his head around to the door opposite from where Kurt crouched. He stalked to the door and called out, “I’ve got the prisoner--”  
  
“He’s locked in! Get up here, godsdamnit!”  
  
And suddenly Kurt was alone.  
  
For a long moment, he stood in the shadows, dagger still raised, sweating and shaking and on the verge of tears. But then he realized that Blaine was in the next room, and he ran into the dungeon.  
  
“Blaine!”  
  
Blaine was in the center cell, just across from the entrance. He was huddled up on the floor, head hung, arms around his knees. But as soon as Kurt said his name, he turned his head, eyes wide and jaw dropping.  
  
“Kurt?”  
  
“Blaine,” Kurt sobbed, rushing forward and falling to his knees in front of the cell. His hands grabbed the bars, pulling himself closer, as close to Blaine as he could. “I’m here, I came for you--”  
  
“Kurt, you have to go!” Blaine whispered frantically. “The guard--he could be back any minute--”  
  
“I’m not leaving without you,” Kurt said.  
  
Blaine knelt up next to him, bringing his hands up to circle around Kurt’s.  
  
“I...Kurt, please,” he begged, and Kurt prepared to fend off another order to flee, but Blaine surprised him. “Please just...tell me that you still love me. I wrote to you, all those letters, and--”  
  
Kurt reached into the cell and stroked Blaine’s cheek.  
  
“They intercepted our letters,” Kurt said. “I...I didn’t think you were writing to me either. I think Sebastian wanted us in the dark, doubting. But it’s not going to work. I’m going to get you out of here, and we’re going to meet up with Lord Nicholas in Westerville, unless he’s already on his way. He should have gotten my messages by now--”  
  
And then Blaine was pressing his face to the bars, his hand snaking out through the bars and threading into Kurt’s hair, pulling him in for a desperate kiss.  
  
Blaine’s lips were dry and cracked, but Kurt didn’t care. He leaned into it, embracing Blaine as best he could through the bars and opening his mouth, deepening the kiss as much as he could with a barrier between them.  
  
“I love you,” Blaine whimpered. “I thought I’d rot in here never knowing if I’d see you again, and--gods, Kurt, never leave me again, please--”  
  
“Never,” Kurt promised. “I’m never leaving your side. I’m never saying goodbye to you.”  
  
They kissed again--quick, fierce--before Kurt pulled back, aching for every inch between them.  
  
“We need to get out of here,” he gasped, pulling his dagger out and testing the tip. “Just...let me try to pick the lock--”  
  
“Why don’t you just use the key.”  
  
Kurt spun around.  
  
“Go ahead,” Sebastian said, sliding them across the floor to land at Kurt’s knees. “Let him out.”


	29. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE HEED THE FOLLOWING WARNING: This chapter contains scenes of torture, violence, and blood. In addition, there is a brief moment and several mentions of dub/non con. Proceed with caution.

“Let him out.”  
  
Kurt stood up and instinctively turned around, placing himself across the cell door, blocking Blaine from sight.  
  
“I wouldn’t bother trying anything,” Sebastian said calmly, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword, a smirk tilting his lips. “I admit I underestimated you--the fact that you’re here proves that. So I’ll be taking steps to ensure you won’t be a problem anymore. Let him out of the cell.”  
  
He took a half step forward, drawing his sword smoothly. He let it hang at his side, deceptively casual. His eyes never left Kurt’s face.  
  
Kurt was entirely certain that Sebastian was perfectly willing to run him through if he didn’t cooperate.  
  
He knelt down and grabbed the keys.  
  
“Very good,” Sebastian praised, and Kurt swallowed against the urge to snap back. “Go ahead.”  
  
Kurt turned around, aware of the fact that he was turning his back on a man who intended to kill his love and take him as a personal whore. As quickly as possible, he slipped the key into the lock and turned, all the while staring into Blaine’s eyes, half-convinced it would be his last chance.  
  
“Blaine,” he whispered. “I’m sorry--”  
  
“We’ll be okay, Kurt,” Blaine said.  
  
“I’m waiting,” Sebastian called.  
  
Blaine grasped the bars of the cell and pushed outward, opening it himself. Kurt watched him slip out, wishing he could reach out and pull Blaine into his arms and never let him go. Instead, he stood as close to Blaine as he dared, keeping his eyes on his Prince as he turned to face his cousin.  
  
“Good,” Sebastian drawled. “Now. Blaine, you’re going to lead the way up to your chambers, and I’ll be right behind you with dear Kurt--”  
  
Kurt was caught off guard as Sebastian gripped his arm and tugged him in, tucking Kurt into his left side. Kurt squirmed, but instantly Sebastian’s sword was up, the blade resting against Kurt’s throat. A whimper left him involuntarily.  
  
“Don’t--” Blaine lifted a hand, admirably steady. “Just...I’ll lead the way. Kurt, just...stay calm. We’ll be all right.”  
  
Sebastian hummed happily.  
  
“For a given value of ‘all right,’ anyway,” he said. “Go ahead.”  
  
Blaine led the way through the lower level of the castle to a winding staircase that placed them just outside the kitchens. Kurt walked right behind him, with Sebastian bringing up the rear, his sword pointed at Kurt’s back.  
  
“Keep going,” Sebastian ordered. Blaine complied silently, passing guards stationed regularly through the hallway and into the court.  
  
“My lord!”  
  
At the entrance to the dining hall, two guards held their spears across the doorway, and against these struggled several of the servants, the foremost of which was Mike.  
  
“Blaine,” he called. One of the guards struck his leg with the butt of the spear, silencing him with pain.  
  
“Enough,” Blaine commanded. “Mike, just cooperate. Keep everyone safe. Just...do your duty.”  
  
Kurt wisely didn’t comment on the strange emphasis Blaine put on the final word, or the pointed nod that went with it. But he did look around cautiously--thankfully, though, only he and Mike seemed to take any meaning from the words. It made sense; no one knew Blaine better.  
  
What is he planning?  
  
“Go on,” Sebastian said, poking Kurt’s back with the sword lightly. Kurt arched his back away and grunted at the little stab of pain that accompanied it, but he stayed still, well aware that any false moves could get everyone killed. Blaine seemed to realize the same thing, for while his eyes screamed with anger and hurt and terror, he steadily walked on, guiding them into the hallway and to the door of his chambers.  
  
“Kneel by the fire, your highness,” Sebastian sneered, shutting the door behind them. “Facing the room, please.”  
  
Blaine did as he said, sinking to his knees in front of the crackling fireplace. Sebastian grabbed Kurt’s shoulder and guided him over, shoving him into one of the chairs facing the warm glow.  
  
“Now,” Sebastian said evenly, “stay still.”  
  
There were several tearing sounds behind him, but he remained where he was, staring ahead until Blaine’s gaze caught his own.  
  
He looked so beautiful, lit from behind by the fire. Even though his hair was disheveled, even though he was filthy and rumpled from the dungeon floor, and even though they could very well be about to watch each other die, his eyes stared at Kurt just like they always had, to some extent--with awe, with love. Kurt stared back, and he didn’t look away, not when he started crying, not when Sebastian started tying him up, and not even when Sebastian began speaking.  
  
“This is how it will work,” he said. “Blaine, you will remain in the dungeons. You will remain alive. You will publicly declare that you support my reign. If you do not, Kurt will pay the price.”  
  
With a quick swipe of his sword, a line of pain bloomed across Kurt’s cheek, and he felt a warm trickle of blood slide down to his jaw.  
  
Still, he didn’t look away. Blaine’s eyes remained locked on his, and the only thing Kurt wanted was to take away the look of utter devastation from their warm amber depths.  
  
“And you, Kurt,” Sebastian continued, “will fulfill your duty to me as my concubine. You will serve me willingly and enthusiastically, with all the skill that I will make sure you possess. And if you don’t do all that you’re told, and all you can to please me, Blaine will pay the price.”   
  
Kurt kept his eyes on Blaine. He needed to see him, needed to commit him to memory. Because if they were doomed to part, he wanted to keep the memory of Blaine in his heart as long as he could--a little treasure, something Sebastian couldn’t take from him even if he could take everything else.  
  
He’d never be able to take away the absolute happiness that filled him when he remembered their love. He could kill everything Kurt held dear, take away his freedom and his comfort and even his life, but he’d never be able to remove the knowledge that, for a short, beautiful time, Kurt had found his soulmate.  
  
It might be the only thing he could have left.  
  
“But for now,” Sebastian continued, “I’m going to demonstrate the consequences. And because I plan on showing you exactly what your duties will be tonight, Kurt, I’ll spare you.”  
  
He stalked over to Blaine, slipping to his side and swinging the tip of his blade into the fire.  
  
“Sebastian,” Kurt gasped. “Please--don’t--I’ll do whatever you want, but please do not do this--”  
  
“Oh, I do love how prettily you beg,” Sebastian purred. “Why don’t you keep practicing while I show you just what will happen to your lover if you stop.”  
  
A swish of air, a hiss, and Blaine was screaming, slumping forward. Sebastian stuck out a foot to catch him and prop him back up, removing his blade from Blaine’s collarbone with a quick jerk of his arm. Kurt gasped, his eyes swimming with tears as he watched Blaine’s skin turn an angry red where the blade had touched.  
  
“I think we’ll need to remove some clothing to continue,” Sebastian noted. “Stay still, cousin. I wouldn’t want to hurt you accidentally.”  
  
He crouched down next to Blaine and grasped his shirt firmly. He cut at the fabric with his sword, tearing the back until it parted, hanging off Blaine’s front and falling down his arms.  
  
“Better,” he said. “Now.”  
  
He stood, sticking the tip of his sword into the flames again. Kurt’s eyes locked onto it. Sebastian was going to keep hurting Blaine--he was going to burn him and cut him and harm him until he got bored of it or until he had something better to do. And Kurt couldn’t reach the knife at his hip, nor could he wiggle free.  
  
There was only one thing he could think of to do to keep Blaine from suffering.  
  
“Please, Sebastian,” he begged, turning his eyes up and finding Sebastian’s. He put everything he had into keeping their gazes locked. “Please don’t. I know what you’re capable of--”  
  
“Do you?” Sebastian interrupted. In a quick second, he swung the sword around and stuck the tip down into the meat of Blaine’s upper arm, just below his left shoulder. Blaine screamed again, his body twitching away from the sword so forcefully that he toppled over, landing on his side. The sword drew free, leaving a smoldering puncture wound, a little burned pit in his skin.  
  
“No!” Kurt called.  
  
“I could do worse,” Sebastian continued. He knelt behind Blaine, sheathing his sword and pulling a dagger from his opposite hip. He slipped that arm around Blaine’s shoulders, holding him in a half-reclined position, the blade hovering near his throat. He placed the other hand on Blaine’s back, running it down slowly.  
  
“I could show you what I have planned for you. If I keep him face-down, I don’t even have to look at his disgusting scars.”  
  
He pushed Blaine onto his front, pulling the dagger away and instead pointing it at Blaine’s bare back as he worked a hand down the back of his breeches. Blaine squirmed against it, earning a quick cut for his troubles. Kurt cried out.

  
“Stop!” He stared Sebastian down. “Show me instead. Show me whatever it is you want to do to me. But do it to me. I want to know firsthand.”  
  
Sebastian’s eyes narrowed, and his tongue darted out to moisten his bottom lip. Kurt watched it briefly before flickering his eyes back up, licking his own lips.  
  
“Whatever I want?” Sebastian asked. “Are you sure of that?”  
  
Kurt fought against the bile rising in his throat and nodded. This could be the only way to spare Blaine more pain.  
  
“Anything,” he said as convincingly as he could.  
  
Sebastian tilted his head and stood, approaching slowly, a predator gathering himself to spring.  
  
“What would you do to distract me?” He pointed back to Blaine, still studying Kurt’s face intently. “Would you do it in front of him?”  
  
Unable to help himself, Kurt looked down at Blaine. He expected to see Blaine protesting, betrayed and in agony, but instead Blaine was half-propped on his elbow, and he was nodding at Kurt encouragingly, flicking his gaze up to Sebastian.   
  
Kurt had to keep going. Whatever Blaine was planning, he had to go along with it. Even if it meant--  
  
Kurt kept his face carefully stony and looked back up at Sebastian.  
  
“Yes,” he said determinedly. “Whatever you want. He can watch.”  
  
Sebastian laughed.  
  
“I think I could enjoy that.”  
  
He stepped forward, invading Kurt’s space. A calloused hand cupped Kurt’s uninjured right cheek, thumb drawing across his bottom lip, pulling it down. Kurt obediently opened his mouth, darting his tongue out to lick at it. Sebastian’s mouth fell open just a little bit, his breath coming quicker.  
  
It’s working, Kurt thought, and he immediately changed his posture, straightening, tilting his head back to bare his neck just a little bit. He arched his back and sucked Sebastian’s thumb into his mouth, nipping at it and swirling his tongue around the tip.  
  
“Oh, you’re going to be good at this, aren’t you?” Sebastian whispered. His free hand started loosening the ties on his breeches. “Why don’t you show me, sweetheart?”  
  
Kurt swallowed the saliva that flooded his mouth, not from arousal, but from nausea. He was going to have to do this, he was really going to have to do this, oh gods--  
  
“What--”  
  
Sebastian backed up, drawing his sword again, and before Kurt could figure out what was happening there was a heavy, metallic thud, and Sebastian went crashing to the ground.  
  
“Get his weapon,” Blaine said, dropping the iron poker from the fireplace. Mike suddenly appeared from behind him, rushing to Sebastian’s prone form and kicking away his sword. “Keep him there--is he--”  
  
“He’s awake, but he’s stunned,” Mike replied. Kurt heaved out a heavy sigh of relief--Mike must have snuck in through the concealed door from the dining room where he’d been held. That’s what Blaine had been hinting at when they’d passed by.  
  
“Damn,” Blaine cursed, staggering forward to the chair, his hands working at the ties holding Kurt there. “I would’ve liked to have killed him, but my damn arm--”  
  
As soon as Kurt was loose, though, he cut Blaine off, launching up and throwing his arms around his neck, kissing him frantically.  
  
“I thought I’d never--I thought I’d have to--” Kurt babbled between kisses, threading his fingers into Blaine’s hair to keep him close. “I can’t--Blaine--”  
  
“Sh, it’s okay now,” Blaine soothed, running his hands weakly up and down Kurt’s back. “He didn’t--he won’t. We have him, he’ll pay for what he’s done once we can figure out what to do with his soldiers--”  
  
“Nick,” Kurt blurted out. “Lord Nicholas should be on his way. We--we sent messengers, last night, when Sebastian locked me in my house, Finn sent a messenger and when I escaped we sent more, he could arrive at any minute.”  
  
“Wait, hold on,” Blaine said, pulling back and grabbing Kurt’s hands. “Mike, did anyone see you leave?”  
  
Mike shook his head.  
  
“The guards just stood post outside the doors and up on the balcony, none of them were in the room with us. Everyone’s been instructed to act normally, they won’t realize I’m gone unless they come in to check on us and realize I’m not there. It shouldn’t be a problem, we’re not that important and there were so many of us--”  
  
“Okay,” Blaine said, cutting him off. “Go tie up Sebastian, make sure he’s gagged.” He led Kurt to the bed and sat him down, kneeling before him and holding Kurt’s hands to his lips. “We have a little time. Just tell me...everything.”  
  
Kurt took a deep breath. He told Blaine everything--about the letters, the guard’s betrayal, his escape, and how he entered the castle. Blaine nodded along gravely until he told them about Santana, at which point Blaine stopped him, turning to Mike.  
  
“Do you know anything about that--”  
  
“No,” Mike said. “She wasn’t brought to us, and I didn’t hear anything--”  
  
“We’ll find her when we get this under control,” Blaine said. “Go see if you can hear anything outside the door, and then check on what’s happening in the dining room. Call out to warn us if needed.”  
  
He turned back to Kurt and kissed his hands, nuzzling into them when Kurt turned them over to caress Blaine’s face. “You were so brave, Kurt. I can’t tell you--I thought--”  
  
Kurt stood and pulled Blaine to his feet and wrapped him up in his arms, careful not to touch his cauterized shoulder or his collarbone, the burn there shiny and pink.  
  
“I know,” he said into Blaine’s neck, kissing the scars there gently. “I know, I thought I’d lost you--I thought he’d won--”  
  
“He didn’t,” Blaine said firmly, hands drifting up to Kurt’s cheeks, cupping them tenderly, one thumb wiping away the blood from his left side. “There’s--there’s still a lot that needs to be done, battles that need to be fought. Nick coming here won’t magically fix--”  
  
“I know,” Kurt interrupted, leaning his cheek into one of Blaine’s hands. “I know. Just tell me what you need me to do.”  
  
Blaine’s eyes pleaded with Kurt as he breathed in shakily through trembling lips.  
  
“I need you to stay safe,” Blaine said. “You--I’ll need you to stay alive in case I die, because--no--” Kurt opened his mouth to protest, but Blaine shook his head. “I need you to hear me. I will be sending one of the servants out the way you came in to make sure Nick is coming, and I will be joining whatever battle happens when he arrives. If I die, there will be a battle for the throne. I need you to relay my last wish that Lord Nicholas take the throne. He’s the best option, and I am naming him my heir. Do you hear me? Can you do that?”  
  
Kurt closed his eyes against the tears that formed at the possibility, but he nodded, silent but for a quick whimper that slipped past his lips.  
  
“No, sh, it won’t come to that,” Blaine soothed, laying his forehead against Kurt’s. “I just need to be careful. But I will do everything in my power to return to you, Kurt. And when this is all over--gods help any who try to keep me from you.”  
  
He kissed Kurt hard. Kurt melted into him, tilting his head and parting his lips, moaning when Blaine’s tongue slid in against his own. He closed his lips around it and sucked, feeling Blaine’s chest vibrate in response.  
  
After a moment, Blaine pulled back, gasping for air.  
  
“I wish we had the time to continue our reunion,” he said regretfully, “but we don’t.”  
  
Kurt nodded, sighing.  
  
“What do we need to do? Right now.”  
  
Blaine pulled back, kissing Kurt one last time, quick and sweet.  
  
“We need to find out if Nick is on his way. If we can find a way to get Mike down to the basements--”  
  
“No need.”  
  
Mike peeked his head out from the secret passage and grinned.  
  
“There’s fighting outside,” he said. “I think it’s Nick--”  
  
And then, with a flash of movement and a glare of light from metal, Mike groaned and slumped to the ground, clutching his side, an alarming amount of blood seeping between his fingers. Sebastian stood in his place, panting and twirling his dagger in his hands.  
  
“I’ll be back for you,” he hissed, and then, with a click of the door and the screams of servants beyond, he was gone.


	30. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for extended scenes of violence, death, multiple descriptions of injury and blood, and a character death.

Blaine ran to Mike’s side, kneeling and trying to lift him carefully.  
  
“No,” Mike said, panting unsteadily. “I’m fine, I’ll be fine. Just--”  
  
And then Kurt was there, helping lift Mike to sit in a nearby chair, easing the weight tugging on Blaine's injured arm. Mike collapsed heavily, still clutching his side, a grimace twisting his face. Blaine and Kurt knelt next to him.  
  
“I’ll send in Tina to tend to you,” Blaine said. “I need--”  
  
“You need to go fight,” Mike panted. “Don’t let the bastard win.”  
  
Blaine looked at his servant and dearest friend. Injured, bleeding, possibly dying, all because Sebastian felt it was his right to take the throne. And that was no one’s fault but Blaine’s--he had left Sebastian unbound, he hadn't hit him hard enough, he was the reason Sebastian was here in the first place. He was the reason Sebastian had come today. No matter how Blaine saw it, if he had just done his duty, none of this would have happened.  
  
“Blaine.”  
  
Blaine paused in his internal self-flagellation and looked up. Mike smiled down at him and lifted his hand, palm facing away from Blaine.  
  
“You are the finest king I could have hoped to serve. So please...go make sure that when I recover, it will still be you I am serving.”  
  
Blaine fought back tears that prickled behind his eyes and grasped the hand, clutching it tightly.  
  
“I will,” he promised. He pulled back, stood, and turned to Kurt. “Kurt, I--”  
  
“Go,” he said, looking up at Blaine with a resigned nod. “I’ll stay with him until Tina comes, and then I’ll see to the servants, make sure they stay safe.”  
  
Blaine took a deep breath, hating what he had to say, the pain he had to cause Kurt--  
  
“And if I--you’ll--”  
  
Kurt stood and placed a hand on his chest, just above his heart.  
  
“I’ll carry out your wishes if...if you don’t come back,” he choked out, blinking rapidly, staring down at his hand and breathing in deeply through parted lips.  
  
But then he looked up, the full force of his gaze staggering the breath right out of Blaine.  
  
“But you come back,” he demanded, his voice firm despite the hitch in the final word. “You come back to me, Blaine.”  
  
Blaine pulled Kurt in and kissed him once--hard, fierce, putting everything he had into it. And then he pulled away and nodded.  
  
“I will.”  
  
He turned and, resisting the urge to look back, slipped through into the dining room. Cheers rose from the servants assembled there, and he smiled and nodded at all of them, raising his hand for silence.  
  
“It’s not over yet,” he said. “All who are capable and armed, I’m asking you to join me. The rest, stay here, stay safe, and do whatever Kurt says--he’s in charge.”  
  
“Where are Mike and Santana?” Tina asked, rushing forward.  
  
Blaine sighed and placed a kind hand on her shoulder.  
  
“Mike is back in my chambers, injured--but alive,” he said encouragingly, as Tina clapped her hands over her mouth and whimpered. “Go to him.” He turned to the rest of the room. “We don’t know where Santana is. If anyone comes across her or finds out where she is, let a soldier or a guard know as soon as you can and we’ll make sure she’s brought to safety.”  
  
He looked to the corner of the room where Sam had gathered everyone armed; about six people all told, ready to fight. He walked up and clasped Sam’s hand.  
  
“Are we ready?” he asked.  
  
Sam nodded, handing Blaine an extra sword.  
  
“Ready,” he said. “Sebastian ran through here himself just a moment ago, but nobody checked in on us. They don’t even know we’re armed, as far as I know.”  
  
“Do we know what’s going on out there?” Blaine asked.  
  
“Nope,” Sam replied, a half-smile on his face. “We could find out, though. Seven of us against the two guards on the court door. I like those odds.”  
  
Blaine grinned back.  
  
“Me too.”  
  


* * *

  
As soon as she entered Tina took over, gasping and fawning over Mike for only a moment before she took charge and started tending him, shooing Kurt out with a wave of her hand.  
  
“Blaine said you’re in charge,” she said. “Everyone’s waiting for you in the dining room. I’ll take care of Mike.”  
  
Kurt nodded and slipped into the dining room, shutting the door behind him just in case. The servants were either sitting or milling about aimlessly, the air thick with tension. In the corner where his stool normally sat, two guards lay slumped against the wall, either unconscious or dead. Kurt grimaced.  
  
“Kurt!”  
  
Mercedes slipped through a small grouping of workers that Kurt wasn’t familiar with and hugged him tightly.  
  
“Boy, I thought you were gone for good,” she said, her eyes a little watery.  
  
“I’m okay, I’m back,” Kurt assured. He pulled back from her and looked around again. “How’s everyone doing?”  
  
“Okay,” Mercedes said, looking around with him. “As far as I know we’re all unhurt, just...a little nervous. I mean...who knows what’s going to happen.”  
  
Kurt nodded, grim.  
  
“Well, there’s not much we can do,” he said. “We have to make sure nobody thinks anything is different in here, give Blaine a chance to get to Nick without more guards sneaking up behind him. How many guards are on this room besides those?” He pointed to the corner where the guards lay.  
  
“Nobody in there move!”  
  
The sharp cry came from outside the room. There was a heavy thud, hurried footsteps, and then a faint, faraway sound of metal on metal and voices crying out.  
  
“Two, now,” Mercedes said, answering Kurt’s question, apparently unfazed by the sounds of battle. “Two were in the hall and two are still up on the balcony. Those two in the corner were watching from the court.”  
  
“Okay.” Kurt nodded his head and bit his lip. “Then all we can do is hold on, and see if any opportunities arise.”  
  


* * *

  
“Your Majesty, six dozen of Sebastian’s men are out front holding off Lord Nicholas’s men. They’re falling quickly--Nicholas has at least one full regiment behind him. Maybe more.”  
  
Blaine nodded shortly. “And where are the rest of Sebastian’s men?”  
  
They were down to six, but the court was strewn with their enemies. They pressed against the wall below the western staircase, panting heavily and wiping sweat and blood from heated brows. The scout he’d sent out to gather information was an older man, a much-hardened veteran of battle, but he was quick and quiet, and he’d only been gone for about five minutes before he’d returned with his reports.  
  
“He’s got most of his men out back,” the scout replied. “I think they’re mustering up, getting ready to attack. From the small groups he has portioned off I’d guess he’s gonna send some around, try to catch Lord Nicholas from the back by sneaking through the gardens. Smaller groups are quieter. The ones not out back are probably upstairs.”  
  
Blaine debated sending his men up the staircase. There was no telling who was up there, though--who could come at them from above if they tried. He brushed the idea away; it was better to advance below, attack Sebastian’s men defending at the front of the castle and get them to turn around, giving Nick an advantage. Then they could all meet up and face Sebastian before he could slip around.  
  
“Blaine, what are you thinking?” Sam asked from his right. Blaine turned his head and studied the men.  
  
“What I’d like to do is head to the front of the castle, attack Sebastian’s defenders from behind,” he said. “I think we should be able to put a dent in them.”  
  
“Ready men!” Sam shouted, raising his sword in a quick salute. “Let’s go give them a reason to cover their asses!”  
  
“Poor choice of words,” someone called out. Blaine whipped his head around and was met with the sight of Sebastian sauntering through the court, heading right toward them. “Considering the pastimes of your Prince.”  
  
Without a single hesitation Blaine’s men raised their swords, ready to attack at a word. Blaine adjusted his grip on his sword, glad of his training with both hands as his left shoulder burned fiercely.  
  
“Sebastian,” Blaine sneered. “I thought you’d be attack Nick by now.”  
  
“Change of plans,” Sebastian replied easily, as though he weren’t alone in front of six armed men hoping to kill him.  
  
But then he wasn’t alone. Several men--more than two dozen, with more hanging back in the halls--ran into the court and flanked their commander.  
  
“You see,” he continued, “I thought about slipping around, coming up on Nick from behind. But then I thought it would be more fun to slaughter you before you ran away to hide behind your cronies.”  
  
“I have no reason to hide, Sebastian,” Blaine said bravely. Or maybe stupidly--he had six men against at least four times as many. But he wouldn’t sit back and let Sebastian mock him.  
  
“I think my men would say differently,” Sebastian countered. “Right, boys?”  
  
Sebastian’s men sent up a raucous cry, but Sebastian’s voice still rose above it all, clear and strong.  
  
“Keep Blaine alive!” he cried. “The rest, kill ‘em!”  
  
The men rushed, battle cries ringing off the marble. Blaine and his men didn’t wait--they returned the cry and charged to meet their attackers.  
  
Blaine lost himself in battle. Before he could register it, he’d killed two men, and he was fending off another, sword flying through the air quickly, body twisting to dodge the blow as his rapier slipped beneath to slice into the attacker’s legs. The man cried out and stumbled, and Sam ran him through before yanking away his sword.  
  
“We’ll never win!” he cried. “There’s too many!”  
  
“Can we retreat?” Blaine shouted back. Sam’s instant yell of “no” sank his heart, but he continued fighting like a madman, ready to die before Sebastian captured him again.  
  
“Nick!”  
  
Blaine stabbed the nearest man right through his eye before he realized what Sam had said. He turned his head briefly, met with the sight of Nick charging in through the front doors, leading his men in and right at Sebastian’s left flank. Blaine grinned ferociously, fighting into a suddenly nervous enemy with renewed vigor.  
  
Sebastian’s men retreated at a quick cry from Sebastian, meeting with the fresh men still hanging back, leaving an opening for Nick’s men to swarm ahead of Blaine’s, continuing the battle for them.  
  
Blaine looked at his men. Two had fallen, leaving only him, Sam, and two others, and all four of them looked close to collapse.  
  
“How many did we take down?” he asked curiously, looking at the three to see if they knew.  
  
“Four.”  
  
“Six.”  
  
“I took out seven,” Sam said, and Blaine laughed, impressed. “How about you?”  
  
“I would’ve had seven, but you stole that kill from me,” Blaine teased, still laughing. Sam nudged his shoulder.  
  
“We’ll call it even,” he conceded.  
  
Nick appeared from his group of men, smiling, Jeff right by his side, both sweaty but ready and eager. Blaine embraced both of them quickly and gratefully.  
  
“I thought he had us,” Blaine admitted, clapping Nick on the back. “How are your men?”  
  
“We’ve got about double Sebastian’s men, all told,” he said. “But I have more coming up as soon as they muster--this is just the advance guard. Not to mention the men I left on the gate should Sebastian decide to try to fall back to Lima. He won’t be leaving here anytime soon.”  
  
“Thank you,” Blaine said. “I take it you got Kurt’s message, then.”  
  
“Last night,” Nick corroborated. “And I got a few more on the way here. I cannot wait to meet him.”  
  
“Well, if we can take or kill Sebastian, you can,” Blaine promised. “He’s with the servants now, keeping them away from the battle.”  
  
“Go to him,” Nick said. “We’ve got this here, and the four of you need rest. You’re no good to me like this.”  
  
Blaine smiled, taking it as lightly as Nick meant it.  
  
“All right,” he agreed, looking to the side and spotting the door to the dining room, every inch of him drawn to the man on the other side. “But once I see him and catch my breath, I’ll meet you at the head of the charge.”  
  
“Deal,” Nick said, clasping Blaine’s hand.  
  
Blaine turned to the door, ready to run to the other side and kiss Kurt no matter who was watching. His eyes scanned the group of men before him, before landing on just one.  
  
His eyes met Sebastian’s from across the court for a long, frozen moment. And then Sebastian took several steps backward before turning and running.  
  
“Nick!” Blaine cried, whirling around, but Nick was already back among his men. He peered around quickly--no one had seen Sebastian run.  
  
He made a split second decision. Raising his sword, he ran to the dais, slipped along the wall, and ran straight through several of Sebastian’s men, who looked up at him in extreme confusion, unable to react further as Blaine barrelled through them.  
  
He flew into the eastern hall by the servant’s quarters. It was empty, and he took the opportunity to sprint to the kitchen, slipping by Sebastian’s men entering from the rear of the castle. He bolted through and headed to the servant’s entrance. Here he paused, catching his breath--thankfully, he hadn’t been followed.  
  
He carefully slid through the door and out of the castle, quickly taking in the fact that the gardens were completely empty, save for one figure jogging to a stop by the roses, turning and bending over and peering back at the castle.  
  
Blaine grit his teeth and headed toward his cousin.  
  


* * *

  
Kurt was pacing. He had been for several minutes, too keyed up to sit still, but at least he managed to keep the pacing slow. Puttering around like a lunatic wouldn’t keep anybody calm.  
  
All around, through the shut doors and walls surrounding them, the sounds of fighting drifted in. Kurt, never a religious man, sent up a prayer to every god he could think of, promising eternal fealty and unending sacrifices to the one who kept his Blaine safe.  
  
Still, in his mind’s eye, all he could see was Sebastian running Blaine through, smirking cruelly as he murdered Kurt’s entire world.  
  
“Oy!”  
  
Kurt’s head snapped up and panic flooded him with the urge to run as a guard walked down the stairs from the balcony. The entire room fell silent, all heads turning to the quick cry.  
  
The guard eyed the room slowly, his eyes narrowing as he looked over Kurt. Kurt hoped desperately that he was just dumb and trying to figure out if Kurt was a girl or not like all the idiots from his hometown...  
  
“There are less people in here than before,” he said. No, he was far too intelligent, and Kurt could see it in his eyes as he turned back to Kurt and looked him up and down. “And you seem to fit the description of someone important to my Lord.”  
  
The guard stalked forward, leveling his spear at Kurt as he advanced. Kurt opened his mouth to make up a lie about who he was, but the guard’s snarl cut him off.  
  
“No! No excuses. Now, you’re going to come with me, quietly, and--”  
  
Kurt never found what what else he would be doing, because with a heavy clanging noise, the guard dropped to the ground.  
  
“Was that okay?” Brittany asked. She was still holding the heavy candelabra aloft.  
  
Kurt spluttered for a moment before recovering himself.  
  
“Yes, that was incredible, Brittany!” He blinked down at the guard, half-sorry that he was still breathing. “Where did you learn to do that?”  
  
“Well, Santana taught me how to keep Puck out of my room, so I thought it might work here too,” she explained simply. “And Lord Tubbington taught me the art of being a clementine.”  
  
Kurt nodded in complete understanding and threw her a grin.  
  
“Well, thank you, Brittany,” he said. “And thank you Lord Tubbington.”  
  
“I’ll tell him,” she replied happily, finally setting the candelabra down. Kurt turned back to the unconscious guard, hands fluttering a little as he considered what to do.  
  
“Well...does anyone have anything to tie him up with? And we’re going to need a gag, too.”  
  
“I have one in my room,” Brittany volunteered. Kurt tilted his head and blinked rapidly, opting not to question it.  
  
“I don’t think we can leave right now,” he said instead.  
  
“Here,” Mercedes said, walking up. She leant down and tore a strip off the bottom of her skirt, handing it to Kurt with a nod and a smile. “You owe me a new skirt.”  
  
“As soon as this is over, I will make you a hundred skirts,” Kurt vowed, taking the strip of cloth and kneeling down, tying the man’s hands tightly behind his back as Mercedes tore her skirt again, giving Kurt what he needed to gag the man tightly.  
  
“There,” he said, standing again. He looked over to the staircase, considering. There was only one more guard left on their room, and if he had half a brain he’d be suspicious when his partner didn’t come back. Kurt took a deep breath and then turned back to Brittany.  
  
“Do you think you could swing that thing again?”  
  


* * *

  
“Sebastian!”  
  
His voice rang loud and clear as he slowed, about ten yards away from where Sebastian stood, apparently catching his breath. His head whipped around, and he spotted Blaine with a quick narrowing of his eyes. He looked back up the path and then back at Blaine--considering if he should run again, most likely.  
  
He drew his sword and stood his ground.  
  
“Well, well,” he said, as Blaine approached, surreptitiously regaining his own breath as he walked up. “So you’ve managed to best everything that I’ve thrown at you. Is this the part of the story where you face me down, fight me one on one like a man? Beat me down and save the day?”  
  
Blaine glared at him, his jaw tight as he said, “That’s the idea.”  
  
“So what now?” Sebastian asked, smirking. “How does this go in the fairytales, cousin? Do I fall to my knees and grovel for forgiveness, seeing the error of my ways? Do I beg for mercy?”  
  
“It doesn’t matter,” Blaine answered. “You don’t deserve mercy.”  
  
“Well, then, I suppose I should fight you after all,” Sebastian replied, whip-quick. “But I’ll warn you--I’ve never been a fan of fairytales.”  
  
His sword whistled as it swung.  
  


* * *

  
The moment the door to the balcony opened, Kurt bolted through like he was running for his life. The guard outside cried out, and Kurt turned around slowly to find a spear pointing at his chest. He raised his hands and opened his eyes wide.  
  
“Oh!” he said. “I--”  
  
“What are you doing up here?” the guard asked. Kurt eyed the spear carefully, standing straight and looking down his nose at it.  
  
“I was trying to escape,” he said, sneering just a bit. “But it seems you’ve caught me.”  
  
When Kurt made the plan with Brittany to distract the guard while she snuck up from behind, he had expected to keep the guard’s attention on him by taunting him, throwing some insults and making the guard want to talk as opposed to just killing him on the spot for trying to leave.  
  
He didn’t expect the guard to look him up and down like a piece of well-cooked meat.  
  
Three months ago, Kurt wouldn’t have known what to do with that look. But that was before Sebastian, before Blaine, in a time when being attractive was a foreign concept.  
  
He made a split second decision.  
  
“Please, just...what do I have to do for you to let me go?”  
  
He bit his lip and bat his eyes slowly, peeking up at him through his eyelashes, wilting just a little into a more feminine pose. The guard laughed briefly.  
  
“I don’t think I will let you go,” he said, but he raised his spear. Kurt blinked at him innocently and the guard smiled, not taking his eyes off Kurt’s face. “I think I’ll keep you right here--”  
  
He fell to the ground heavily when Brittany bashed him over the head. Kurt instantly stood back up straight and looked down at him.  
  
“Well, that was easier than I thought,” he commented quietly. “Thank you, Brit.”  
  
“Do you need me to hit anybody else?” she asked, a little too eagerly. Kurt just shook his head.  
  
“No, I think we’re good,” he said with a little nervous laugh. “You should go back inside, I’ll throw him over the side or something.”  
  
Kurt didn’t watch Brittany leave. He bent down and grabbed the guard by his ankles, dragging him over to the edge of the balcony, fully intending to tip him over the rail and letting the ground have him.  
  
When he turned to see what the guard would land in, he caught sight of Blaine’s roses. He dropped the guard’s feet and turned, leaning over the rail and watching as he recognized Blaine and Sebastian.  
  
And then he gasped, and his world fell apart.  
  


* * *

  
They paused in their fighting, both panting heavily. Blaine had several small cuts over his arms and chest, while Sebastian had a bloody mouth from a hit from Blaine’s hilt and a deep slice across the top of one thigh. They stared each other down, assessing each others’ wounds against their own and considering. Blaine smiled a little--Sebastian wasn’t moving well with his leg injured, and he was tiring quickly. And while Blaine was sore, and his right arm was increasingly useless, he was determined to keep whittling away at Sebastian until he fell, and he was doing just fine with only his right hand.  
  
“You should forfeit,” Blaine suggested. “There’s a benefit for you if you start acting like the fairytales, Sebastian. You might get to live.”  
  
“So you would grant me mercy after all?”  
  
Blaine shook his head slowly.  
  
“Just because you’re alive doesn’t mean I can’t make your remaining days miserable, cousin. Not after all you’ve done to Kurt and the rest of your subjects. Your choice, though, if you’d rather face that or death. I can deal you either.”  
  
“I wouldn’t celebrate your victory yet, Your Majesty,” Sebastian sneered, smiling viciously, his mouth stained red with blood. He nodded toward the castle. “How would you fare as King without your lover by your side?”  
  
Blaine’s blood ran cold as he turned around, expecting to see Kurt fallen. But Kurt was there, standing on the balcony, leaning over the rail and staring out at him, his eyes wide and his hand covering his mouth. Beautiful, healthy. There was nothing to stop him from turning around and taking Sebastian down.  
  
Instead he felt the cold slide of steel as it entered his back.  
  


* * *

  
Kurt’s vision blurred around the edges, only the image of Blaine falling sharp in his mind, his face contorted with pain as he sank first to his knees and then into the dust.  
  
He turned and ran faster than he’d ever run in his life.  
  


* * *

  
Pain, like vines creeping over his skin, growing from the deep ache in his back. The blood seeping from the wound trickling down his back, tickling him a little, uncomfortably wet. If he could move, he would’ve wiped it away, but...he felt frozen, as though the vines turned to iron and kept him caged to the ground.  
  
Breathing was a conscious effort. Strangely calm, he wondered what would happen if he just...stopped. Would it take long? Would he stay suspended in this floating blackness, the pain edging along what senses he had left? Or would it all fade? Would he sink into the ground and feed the crimson blooms? Did they get their color from blood? Maybe that’s why they were so dark. His mother’s blood fed them first, and then his father, and his brother. Now, his.  
  
A tribute, to keep their beauty alive. Maybe if Kurt continued to tend them after he was gone, he’d be able to feel him through the leaves and branches. He’d live on through his roses, hanging on only for his beloved, until such a time as he would lay beneath the branches himself and join Blaine beneath their roots, and the roses would bloom forever.  
  
He started to sink, his breath slowing.  
  
“--stop!”  
  
Kurt’s voice. He strove to obey, gasping for breath so he’d halt his descent. He had to stop for Kurt.  
  
“--no, Sebas--”  
  
But Kurt wasn’t talking to him. Who was he talking to?  
  
Sebastian.  
  
He was talking to Sebastian, who had just killed him. And he was going to take Kurt away from him.  
  
Kurt would never be allowed to tend the roses if Sebastian became king. He’d probably order the roses burned, and then Blaine would have no way to cling to the earth, no way to see Kurt again.  
  
He coughed and opened his eyes.  
  


* * *

  
Sebastian had already sheathed his sword by the time Kurt approached. He was facing away, circling Blaine like a vulture about to pick apart his carrion. Kurt drew his dagger and cried out.  
  
“Stop!”  
  
Sebastian turned around and grinned.  
  
“Too late,” he crooned.  
  
“No, Sebastian,” Kurt growled. “I’ve got plenty of time.”  
  
“Oh?” Sebastian protested. He didn’t bother drawing his sword. “Looks to me like Blaine is already gone.”  
  
Kurt tossed his dagger up just enough to grab the blade deftly between his fingers. He stopped several feet from Sebastian and turned his body, drawing back his arm.  
  
“Who said anything about Blaine.”  
  
He let the dagger fly, spinning through the distance between them quickly. It struck home in Sebastian’s right side, just below the end of his clavicle. He cried out and stumbled back, his free hand grasping at the hilt as he tumbled off his feet, landing on his side a few feet away, his breath coming ragged and quick. Kurt ignored him and knelt down beside Blaine.  
  
“Blaine?” he whispered, smoothing Blaine’s hair back with one hand while he smoothed the other down his back, fingers stopping just shy of the bleeding stab wound. There was an alarming amount of blood, and Kurt pulled off his shirt and held it to the wound. Blaine hissed at the contact.  
  
“Blaine?” he repeated.  
  
“--hurts,” Blaine croaked, his face clenching up. Kurt smoothed his hair back again, smearing a little bit of blood on his forehead, but his eyes opened and Kurt nearly sobbed in relief.  
  
He wanted to promise everything would be okay, that he could get help, but Sebastian was already moving around behind him and he had no time to get it himself. Only when he looked up and saw the balcony filled with the castle’s servants, watching them, did he begin to hope. He raised an arm and waved, turning back to Blaine when he saw the distinct form of Mercedes turning around and taking charge.  
  
“I know it hurts,” Kurt said softly, looking back down at Blaine, “but it’ll be okay soon. I promise.”  
  
Blaine huffed out a breath, sending a little cloud of dust up from the ground, instantly coughing weakly and groaning in pain. Kurt soothed him and very carefully rolled him onto his back, keeping the shirt pressed tightly against the wound to keep out the dust and stem the bleeding.  
  
“Just lay here,” Kurt said. “Can you stay with me? Stay awake?”  
  
Blaine nodded, apparently fully back with him, his eyes startlingly clear as he looked up at Kurt.  
  
“You can...you can kill him,” he said, rolling his eyes over to where Sebastian was up on his knees. “Take my sword.”   
  
“You fucking whore.”  
  
Kurt turned his head and saw Sebastian gritting his teeth and drawing out the dagger and tossing it aside. It had hit hard, but when he drew it out the blood wasn’t nearly the amount Kurt hoped would come from the wound. His stronger side was seriously compromised, at least.  
  
Kurt turned to Blaine and kissed his temple quickly, whispering, “I’ll be back,” before grabbing his rapier from where it had fallen.  
  
He turned and faced Sebastian, who was rising to his feet and drawing his sword with his left hand, showing unfortunate dexterity.  
  
“You’re going to pay for that,” Sebastian vowed, hefting his sword and facing Kurt down. Kurt lifted Blaine’s rapier, showing more confidence than he felt with the weapon as he took stance.  
  
Sebastian swung, and Kurt barely fended him off. Even injured and fighting with his weaker side, Sebastian was fast. Kurt lunged in, his thrust parried quickly and returned faster than he was comfortable with. He twisted away and backed off to the side, hoping to get Sebastian away from Blaine at the very least.  
  
“You’re going to lose,” Sebastian said firmly. He swung again, and Kurt dodged, swiping wildly at Sebastian’s side and missing by inches. Sebastian turned and slashed Kurt’s thigh, blood readily flowing as Kurt shuffled back, cringing. “I’m going to cut you down in front of your lover, and then you get to watch him die from where you lay helpless.”  
  
“And then what?” Kurt spat, circling again. His back ended up to the roses, and he was trapped. “You’re going to chain me to your bed? It’ll only be a matter of time before I figure out a way to kill you. Even if I have to smother you with your own bedclothes and be executed for it, I’ll find a way, Sebastian.”  
  
“Then I’ll just have to kill you, too,” Sebastian replied easily. “Not that I can’t have a little fun first.”  
  
He lunged, and caught Kurt’s side, opening a deep cut on the side of his waist. Kurt shouted out his pain and fell to his knees, his legs already weak, the blood flowing freely from the cut down his shirtless torso and from his thigh.  
  
“That’s exactly how I want you,” he heard Sebastian say. But his eyes were locked on the ground.  
  
The sun shone off his silver knife, the blood on it dark and thick. He grabbed it and looked back up, standing unsteadily.  
  
“You’re going to have to kill me now,” Kurt said. “If you leave me the least bit alive, I’ll fight. Even if I have to bite off your cock.”  
  
Sebastian raised an eyebrow and tilted his head.  
  
“Can’t bite me if I’m behind you,” Sebastian said. And then he lunged.  
  
Kurt trusted that Sebastian was a phenomenal swordsman. He knew Sebastian wanted him alive, and he knew Sebastian could injure him enough to incapacitate him without injuring him fatally. He put all his faith into it.  
  
Sebastian’s sword slipped into his stomach, very low on his right side, just next to his hip. He felt it slide in deep, and he instantly felt cold and nauseous. But he pushed forward, noting with a twisted pleasure how Sebastian’s eyes widened as Kurt stepped into his personal space. The sword drew back, and Kurt raised his dagger.  
  
He could have said anything to Sebastian in that moment. He could have told him he wasn’t fit to be king, or told him he couldn’t be behind him if he was dead.  
  
Instead, he slashed the tip of the dagger across his throat and watched silently as the blood poured out, a faint gurgling sound coming from his mouth before it too filled with red. Sebastian’s eyes widened, as though he were mildly shocked.  
  
And then he fell.  
  
Kurt dropped his weapons and turned his back.  
  
He only made it a few feet before he collapsed himself.  
  


* * *

  
Blaine’s eyes wouldn’t focus. He couldn’t see what was happening until suddenly Kurt was beside him, lying on the ground facing him, his eyes blinking slowly.  
  
“Blaine.”  
  
He was badly injured, blood covering a good deal of his lower body. Blaine’s heart fell.  
  
“Kurt.”  
  
He tried to roll over, but his legs felt disconnected from his body. Instead, he reached out his hand, stretching his fingers toward Kurt.  
  
Kurt returned the gesture, linking their fingers together across the distance.  
  
“Blaine, I--”  
  
He shuddered, and fell silent, his eyes drifting shut. His fingers fell limp.  
  
Shouts, screams, the clanging of metal and the beat of footsteps. Blaine’s eyes filled with tears, and he fought against the blackness that threatened to overwhelm him.  
  
“Kurt.”  
  
The footsteps drew closer, and he heard gasps and cries and orders being thrown around. None of it mattered. He held Kurt’s hand tighter, holding onto him in the only way he could.  
  
“ _Kurt!_ ”


	31. Chapter 30

Kurt awoke to a man he’d never seen before sitting at his bedside.  
  
“Oh, hello,” the man said, looking up at him through round spectacles perched on his nose. He was sitting in a wicker chair, but he didn’t rise to check on Kurt, simply reaching over to turn his head this way and that, looking into his eyes. After a moment, he grabbed Kurt’s wrist. Kurt tugged it away.   
  
“Who are you?” he asked.  
  
“Artie,” the man replied, nodding at him. “Pleased to meet you. I’m a doctor from Westerville--Prince Blaine requested my immediate presence at the castle five days ago and I’ve been tending you and the others injured in the battle ever since.”  
  
Kurt fought to sit up, but Artie laid a firm hand on his chest, leaning further forward in his chair.  
  
“Just relax,” he said soothingly. “You can get up in a few minutes, once I check you over and call someone in to help you up. Maybe it would help distract you if I filled you in on what I know while I examine you?”  
  
Kurt laid back and looked around briefly. He was in his official chambers, and it made his stomach swoop just a little bit to realize that this was the first time he’d actually slept here. He took a deep breath and turned back to Artie.  
  
“What happened?”  
  
Artie stayed in his chair and pulled back Kurt’s covers, ignoring Kurt’s embarrassed squirming and staying professional, checking the bandages on Kurt’s various wounds as he talked.  
  
“All told, thirteen servants, workers, and castle guards were killed. More from both regiments, though you’ll have to forgive me for not knowing the exact number. Plenty more injured, including you and Prince Blaine. You were both found out by the back gardens, and you were each put in your chambers and bound up by the soldiers. Blaine was doing fine with it--they stopped the bleeding, at least, and he was resting. But you were pretty much dead by the time a runner reached me and a carriage rushed me back.”  
  
“Why a carriage?” Kurt interrupted. “Why not just a horse?”  
  
Artie eyed him for a moment and then looked down at himself with a half-smile.  
  
“I don’t have legs,” he said good-naturedly. “Can’t put this chair on a single horse, you know?”  
  
Kurt just nodded, a little embarrassed, but Artie just kept talking.  
  
“Anyway, I tended you to the best of my ability, and I have to say you were lucky that someone at least stitched up your leg--you have those wounds on your side, but your leg was the worst of it, and you lost a lot of blood before someone did something about it. But you pulled through, and we’ve just been waiting for you to wake up. Everyone’s been taking turns sitting by your side.”  
  
“How is Blaine?” he asked, tossing away the caution of formality in favor of finding out now. “Is he healing well?”  
  
“Well, he’s starting to walk again,” Artie said mildly. “He couldn’t move his legs very well for a few days, and I was worried he’d lose the feeling in them, but they’re getting better and he can stand for short periods now. It’ll take him a while to recover, and he'll have problems with them all his life, but at least he’s alive and still fit to rule. He’ll even be able to open court the day after tomorrow as planned, though he’s had to have Lord Nicholas house some of the Lords until at least tomorrow. Not everything is ready, considering the delays, but it should be soon.”  
  
Kurt nodded.  
  
“And...Mike, and Santana?”  
  
“Mike is recovering,” Artie said. At Kurt’s worried look, he laughed. “Santana was found locked in a bedroom screaming curses through the door. She had a bump on her head, but she was fine.”  
  
“So I’ve been asleep for five days?”  
  
“Yes,” Artie corroborated. “Your family is here, by the way. They’ve been the ones watching you, for the most part, aside from a few of the servants. Prince Blaine tried a few times, but thankfully we’ve been able to convince him to only visit once a day despite his obvious desire for more.”  
  
Kurt peered at him carefully, keeping his face blank, but Artie just raised an eyebrow.  
  
“I am not stupid,” he said evenly, and Kurt blushed.  
  
“Am I allowed out of bed now?” he asked, instead of voicing any reply to that. Artie shrugged and turned his head around.  
  
“Guard!”  
  
The door opened and Sam peeked his head in, grinning when he saw Kurt awake.  
  
“Hey!”  
  
“Kurt wants to get out of bed,” Artie said, and Kurt stared at him--there’d been more than simple instruction in his voice, something...suggestive.  
  
“Oh--oh!” Sam stammered, his eyes widening. He nodded fervently and grinned. “Okay, I’ll just--”  
  
“--send someone in,” Artie said, and yes, there was definitely something going on. Sam nodded and shut the door.  
  
“What’s--”  
  
“You should get dressed!” Artie said, clapping his hands together and nodding at Kurt. “I’ll just--uhm--”  
  
He fell silent, awkwardly grimacing and tilting his head as though considering what to say next. Kurt glared at him, hoping he’d wither and admit something, but to no avail.  
  
The door opened again, and Sam came back in, carrying a light shirt and breeches. Artie’s chair apparently had wheels, because Sam moved him out of the way easily and helped Kurt sit up and put on his clothes, grinning the whole time.  
  
“Okay...I think we should go walk to the roses, what do you think?”  
  
Sam seemed awfully eager. Kurt stared at him questioningly.  
  
“I’d prefer it if we went to see Blaine,” he said firmly. Sam opened his mouth, but nothing came out but an uncertain creak. Kurt narrowed his eyes. “Sam.”  
  
“Just...let’s walk, okay?” he said. He pulled Kurt up and helped him a few steps. His leg hurt like crazy, but Sam picked up a wooden crutch from a nearby table and handed it to him, and he found he could hobble pretty well, all things considered.  
  
They took it slow, out of necessity. Kurt was determined to make it out to the roses, but not only was he weak, people kept stopping him to clap him on the back or cheer. He received a few hugs as well, from Mercedes, Brittany, and Tina. He assured everyone he was healing, and continued on, finally reaching the back door of the castle and limping out.  
  
As he walked down the path, he saw Blaine standing before the roses, his back to Kurt. Puck was standing nearby casually, obviously there to help Blaine if he should need by the bored air about him and the way he was playing with a cane that was clearly not his own. But as soon as he looked up and saw Kurt, he grinned and said something to Blaine.  
  
Blaine turned around, his face split into a happy smile, and their eyes met and refused to let go. Kurt smiled back and hurried forward as best he could.  
  
“You’re awake,” Blaine said. “Just in time, too.”  
  
Kurt laughed out of sheer delight.  
  
“Well, you know I can’t resist a good entrance,” he joked, and Blaine laughed, hanging his head, shoulders shaking with his mirth. He peeked back up through his lashes, still smiling, and Kurt’s breath stole away.  
  
How could anyone think that scars made this man anything but beautiful?  
  
“Good thing, too,” he said. “Now that you’re here, I have something to give you. And I’ve been waiting five days to give it to you, so please forgive me for not picking a more opportune moment.”  
  
And then Kurt looked down at what he was holding in his hands, presenting them to Kurt.  
  
Two roses, their stems wound together, the blooms pressed together.  
  
Two roses declare the intent to marry.  
  
“Kurt, you’ve given me so much,” Blaine said softly. “These are a poor gift in return. But with them I want to give you myself, and a promise in the eyes of the gods to always be yours. Would you accept this gift, Kurt?”  
  
He looked up, and Kurt could barely breathe.  
  
“What about...the kingdom, what about the Lords and the people and--”  
  
“We’ll deal with it as it comes,” Blaine said, stepping closer. “We might not be able to advertise it at first but...you are my soulmate, Kurt. There is no lifetime in which I would not want to be with you. And I’ll do whatever it takes to be with you now, in every way I can.”  
  
He reached a hand up to cup Kurt’s cheek, brushing the skin there gently, just over the scratch that was already healing.  
  
“Marry me.”  
  
Kurt took the roses from Blaine’s hand and brought them up to his face, smelling their heady scent, wanting to remember this moment whenever he caught it for the rest of his life. He leaned in a kissed Blaine softly.  
  
“Yes.”


	32. Epilogue

Kurt kissed Blaine deeply, taking the final opportunity before straightening his doublet and brushing through his curls with his fingers impatiently, trying to make everything perfect. Blaine grabbed his hands and held them down, kissing Kurt again sweetly and grinning, his nerves burning beneath the confident facade. For a moment he let it slip, bouncing where he stood, looking at Kurt with worried eyes.  
  
Kurt laughed.  
  
“You are the most amazing man I’ve ever met,” he whispered, kissing over Blaine’s face, his lips brushing his scars. “And everyone else will see it, too.”  
  
“I wish you could come with me,” Blaine said. “I’m better with you by my side.”  
  
“One day,” Kurt said easily. “But for now, I have to go take my place in the court. I’ll be right there the whole time, whenever you need to look at me. And who can blame you?” He tossed his head back and smiled, showing off.  
  
Blaine laughed fondly.  
  
“Then I won’t take my eyes off you,” he replied. “Never again.”  
  
Kurt hummed and kissed him one last time, pulling back unwillingly and brushing his hair back nervously.  
  
“Okay. Time.”  
  
He turned and slipped into the court, and Blaine waited, breathing deeply and tugging his doublet down and fidgeting in the suddenly lonely hall. But not for long.  
  
Mike’s voice drifted into the hall, calling out the titles that cued his entrance. He pulled his hood up and secure around his face as the final words rang out.  
  
“--Lord of Dalton, his royal highness, Prince Blaine.”  
  
He walked into the court, his stride steady even as murmurs filled his ears. Time slowed as he approached his throne, stopping before it and turning to face the court, lifting his head and standing tall.  
  
He lowered his hood.


End file.
